


Survival or the Grave

by WhiteEevee



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Hunger Games, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-22 16:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 54,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12485996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteEevee/pseuds/WhiteEevee
Summary: Nezumi may be the Capitol's newest victor, but the Games never end.





	1. Recap

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo. So I'm back. I figure if I'm not going to write anything original I might as well keep my writing skills fresh by catering to my endless AU ideas. I make no promises about update schedules, but I'll try to be timely. Many thanks to my sister for brainstorming with me!

     Nezumi waited in the darkness, listening to the muted cheers of the Capitol above. The space beneath the stage smelled of musty wood and the sweat of past victors. It was the stench of oppression, of rot, of decades of kids turned killers. It was fitting, and Nezumi preferred it to the soft powdery smell of the Capitol soap on his skin. This small, dark, fear-scented room was the Capitol at its most truthful, and it made sense that he was only allowed to experience it after he had escaped the arena. After the arena, there was no point in keeping up pretenses.

     Nezumi glared up at the ceiling. He thought he could almost make out the outline of where the platform would rise to place him on the stage above.

 _What's the hold up?_ He heard a crescendo of noise that might have been laughter. He could imagine Verde Ricci, working the audience into a froth at the prospect of seeing their newest victor. It was a tall order for her. He hadn't exactly been a Capitol favorite by the end of the Games. He felt a fractional amount of pleasure imagining her spray painted face stretched tight into a smile, even while she sweated profusely under the stage lights, cursing his name.

     But then maybe he was giving the woman too much credit; maybe she didn't care a lick about making him look good. Maybe he'd rise to the stage to find himself face to face with a mutt. Just the cherry on top of another deliciously vicious Games. Or maybe the Capitol had forgiven him his insult. He was the victor after all, and that gave his tarnished reputation a shiny new veneer of respectability. It was possible; the Capitol residents had the minds of goldfish.

 _Except Fox._ The President’s memory was a long one, and Nezumi wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. But... Well, that battle would have to wait. The platform was humming, and Nezumi felt it start to rise.

     The lights were garish, as expected, and Nezumi tried his best not to squint. Verde was easy to spot in her plush chair at center stage. Her hair was deep bluish green, as it had been back in his first interview, so many weeks ago. And like so many weeks ago, Nezumi thought the bruised color looked unflattering against her white skin. Her unnaturally bright green eyes speared him with an overly friendly gaze, and her blush pink lips split to reveal neat rows of bleached teeth.

     “Here he is, folks!” she crowed. “The 40th Hunger Games’ victor, our very own Nezumi Singer!”

 _Smile_ , Nezumi commanded himself, and his mouth responded automatically, matching Verde’s saccharine grin with ease. Verde waved him over to the chair beside her. Nezumi glided to his seat—more of a throne, really, all plump red cushions and gold filigree—and settled with regal grace, flashing a cavalier smirk at the cameras. Through the glare of the lights, he could see the men and women in the front rows eyeing him greedily. If the audience was still sour about his misstep, they forgot it now. It takes a more serious creature to hold a grudge, and the Capitol was too much fluff to resist a pretty face. And Nezumi was at peak presentation.

     Nezumi wasn’t a vain person, not really, but he was a realist, and it was a very real fact that he was physically attractive. It was his combination of killer looks and deadly knife skills that had won him early adoration. And after the dusty, blood encrusted mess he’d become in the weeks of the Hunger Games, his freshly scrubbed features looked particularly striking. He was wearing a dashing black ensemble and his hair had been combed at a rakish angle. He caught a glimpse of himself on the projected screen and noted with satisfaction that his makeup had been carefully applied to ensure his eyes smoldered. The Capitol was falling in love all over again. Nezumi just had to make sure he played his personality as prettily as he looked.

     “My word!” gushed Verde. “How is it that you seem to have become even _more_ handsome since I last saw you!” She tittered girlishly and the audience echoed her like a mass of twitterpated birds.

     Nezumi shrugged a shoulder. “What can I say? Victory looks well on me.”

     “Oh!” Verde swatted him playfully, but agreed with no deficit of enthusiasm. “It does, it certainly does. Dear! What a Game that was. I admit I was a little worried for you near the end. So much blood.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze to the spot where there should have been a gaping wound, but now was smooth and unblemished, courtesy of Capitol technology. “I was beside myself when that boy from 1 got you,” she said in a stage whisper. “But you... Why, you didn't even look fazed! Did you ever doubt you would make it?”

     Nezumi fixed his face into a determined look, but made sure to tuck a touch of cockiness into the corner of his mouth. He placed his hand over Verde’s on his shoulder and leaned in close to her ear. He knew, despite the show of secrecy, that the cameras and microphones would pick up the conversation with perfect clarity.

     “Never,” he purred. He pulled back and smirked at her. Verde fluttered her bejeweled eyelashes, looking thoroughly dazzled. Nezumi smothered the twist of revulsion in his stomach and turned to the audience. “How could I, when I knew I had all of Panem at my back?” He locked eyes with the camera. “I know we have a schedule to get back to,” he said, shooting a brief, sheepish look at Verde, “but I’d like to take a moment to thank my sponsors. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you.” The crowd erupted in heartfelt exclamations and applause.

 _Yeah, you better cheer, you fickle bastards. So quick to forget how you were perfectly happy to see me bleed out at the end._ A brief flash of the silver med kit crossed his mind, but Nezumi pushed it aside and continued to look gracious.

     “Such a touching confession,” Verde said, wiping away a nonexistent tear. “I’m sure I speak for all the citizens of Panem when I say we are so glad you were victorious. It was a tough battle, but no one else was more beloved or deserving. And speaking of your trials,” her green eyes sparkled with anticipation, and despite his calm demeanor, Nezumi felt an awful rending in his chest, “why don’t we review your journey from Reaping to now? What do you think?” she squealed.

     The crowd cheered and the lights dimmed. In the moment of darkness, Nezumi allowed himself a heavy swallow, but when the video began rolling, he made sure the feed broadcasting his reactions showed a face as invested as the viewers.

     The video rolled through each District’s Reaping ceremony. Nezumi didn’t hide the sneer of revulsion when Syrah stepped onto the stage in District 1. The viewers expected it, and Nezumi still felt real anger when he saw her smug face in panoramic—even if he was ashamed of how he handled her in the end.

     When it reached District 7, it lingered to give Nezumi and his district partner a proportionally longer look. Nezumi didn’t even bother studying himself; he knew he looked strong and unconcerned when his name was pulled out of the bag and his fate sealed. He had taken his place without tears or outward fear, and he had already congratulated himself on the performance when he saw the recap on the train that night.

     He had assessed Sylva that night as well and found her wanting. Looking at her now… He felt a spark of annoyance flare in his chest. She had marked herself as an easy kill from the get-go. She climbed the stairs of the makeshift stage, wide-eyed and unsteady as a newborn fawn. Her wild hair was pulled up in a black puff atop her head, and her dress sagged on her form like a worn out grain sack. Nezumi didn’t know her, but he knew her fate the moment she let the country see her terror.

     The video zoomed through the rest of the District Reapings and eventually found itself embroiled in the pre-Game festivities. It spent less time on the other tributes then, since there was no point wasting minutes on the dead. The editors did, however, keep in some shots of Nezumi and Sylva together. That was good; it would be helpful later, even if he looked none too pleased in the footage with her sticking to him like a burr. Every time he was with her they parted with him simmering with barely concealed frustration. Even Gregor couldn’t stand her, and he was paid to be a chipper and encouraging escort to his tributes.

     Nezumi grimaced as he watched the Capitol ponies parade him around the Victor’s Circle dressed as a sexy deer—or “faun” as his prep team euphemized. He wanted to murder his stylist. Sylva looked in her element, though, standing stock-still and staring about her like a deer in headlights. The audience seemed to be enjoying it, but Nezumi fixed his eyes on the upper right corner of the screen until the section passed.

     Next came the training montage, during which Nezumi did very little that was exciting. Rou and Gran told him not to show his skills; they had both seen him use a knife before—so he just poked around the survival stations and pretended to play with maces and spears as he scoped out his competitors. Watching the Careers spar with each other again, Nezumi felt a strange sense of ennui. They were ridiculously skilled and vicious, and they were all dead, two of them by his hand.

     On screen, Syrah jammed the heel of her hand into Oberon’s windpipe and tripped him to the ground. A dark pall settled in Nezumi’s mind when he watched her draw a bead of blood from Oberon’s chin with a gleeful swipe and skip off to the poisonous plant station.

     The footage, of course, couldn’t include his private session with the Gamemakers, but the music playing in the background made a big deal about his score of 7. Nezumi hadn’t tried his hardest in the session, but he tried harder than Rou and Gran wanted him to. 7 was a middling score, enough to make people keep an eye out, but not threatening. His mentors wanted him to score a 5, so as to play the “All bark and no bite” angle, but Nezumi knew that wouldn’t work. He already stood out too much, and the next leg of the festivities drove that point home.

     The interviews started in an explosion of color and noise. Nezumi once again presented an attractive picture in his sharply cut silver suit, which matched his eyes. His angle was to be as Career as possible, i.e. act sexy and confident. They ate it up.

     “You’re so sure you’re the one to beat!” Verde said on screen, looking a combination of amused and impressed.

     “I am. I already have my talent picked out for the Victory Tour.”

     “ _Do_ you? Is it something you can share with us now?” She tossed a suggestive look at the camera. Nezumi remembered wondering if she were hoping he would do a strip tease or something similarly inappropriate for a forty year old to think about a sixteen-year-old boy.

     “Actually,” Nezumi drawled, “it is.” He turned full face toward the camera and began to sing in a clear tenor,

 

_Little mouse in the hedgerow,_

_Hawks circling overhead,_

_Run quick to your home now,_

_Or else you shall be dead._

_The foxes are hunting,_

_The cats are in the brush,_

_Run quick to your home now,_

_Step quietly, but rush._

_The sun and mounts are meeting,_

_Little mouse, you must be brave._

_The time to run is fleeting,_

_It’s survival or the grave._

 

     He had chosen the nursery rhyme for its brevity and playful air. It was just the kind of reel that Panem would enjoy: quaint, innocent. The performance was met with raucous applause from Verde and the audience, and Nezumi smirked at his sneering competitors as he made his way back to his seat.

     The excited buzz from the viewers trailed off into tense silence as the main event began. The camera swept over the apocalyptic vista: Rows of dilapidated houses and dusty streets, a shattered fountain in the middle of the city center. Black scars burned into the cobblestones and sides of buildings in eerie silhouettes. It was obvious that the arena was meant to remind everyone of the Dark Days, of District 13, and the picture wasn’t pretty. Nezumi remembered the way the sight of the crippled concrete buildings set his teeth on edge.

     The arena wasn’t just the ruined city, however. There was a small forest to the north and a rugged beach to the south. Without these it would be too difficult for tributes to find water and food to sustain them through the bloodshed.

     Nezumi hadn’t bothered with the Cornucopia bloodbath. He fled to a building on the outer limits of the city and climbed to the uppermost floor to watch. Six tributes died on the blackened cobblestones that morning, mostly from stabbing or heads bashed in. The weapons provided for this Game were fairly crude. In the spirit of it, Nezumi forged a shiv from a piece of glass, wood, and cloth. Just in case. He planned to sit on the sidelines until the numbers were shaved down a little further.

     The next few frames featured a death. Pixel insulted District 3’s reputation for smarts when he got himself drowned in the fountain trying to sneak water. The Careers—a pack including the usual suspects from 1, 2, and 4, but also surprisingly-unsurprisingly Vaughn from 10—cornered and slaughtered two female tributes. Poor little Tilly from District 12 was ripped to pieces by a massive sewer rat mutt. Then Vaughn got a little too handsy with Pearl one night, and Neptune lobbed his head off with an axe. One bloody death after another, and meanwhile Nezumi was safely tucked out of the way, biding his time.

     It didn’t bother Nezumi to watch his fellow tributes’ demises. He didn’t know any of them well, or at all, and although he was perturbed by the creativity of some of the murders, he couldn’t blame the perpetrators. He was no saint himself.

     Then the Careers began to fight. Snipes at first, and then full on shoving battles and screaming matches. The tenuous alliance fell apart when Syrah crushed Oberon’s skull with a rock. His District partner Alexis didn’t take it well, and Neptune and Pearl were forced kill her to avoid being killed themselves. After that, Pearl demanded that Syrah leave the alliance. Her partner, Glint, tried to argue for her, but Syrah shrugged and skipped off like the nutcase she was, leaving Pearl and Neptune to their two-man team and Glint to his own devices.

     Nezumi raised an eyebrow, but he wasn’t that surprised. It happened. Too much talent and brute strength in one place usually led to flaring tempers, if not Career-on-Career death. But the schism explained some things…

     The background music hushed abruptly. Sylva’s frightened face appeared on the screen and Nezumi’s stomach bottomed out. This was the moment he had been dreading. He recognized the dusty room and the overturned furniture. From the looks of it, she had been hiding in the hut for a long while. Perhaps she had the same idea as him, to ride out the brunt of the Games and wait until the competition was thinner before jumping into the thick of it. Whatever her reason, it didn’t work.

     She was sleeping when Syrah pushed the door open and slithered in. Nezumi knew she had been the chief perpetrator, but before he saw the footage, he had believed a few of the other Careers had been in on it. Syrah took the time to wake Sylva and even gave her a few seconds to scramble up and try to run.

     Nezumi watched, sickened, as Syrah caught Sylva by the hair and slammed her to the floor. The surround sound sent the crack of her skull hitting the floorboards ricocheting around the auditorium. Nezumi flinched. A few audience members hissed in imagined pain.

     Sylva didn’t move when Syrah towered over her and taunted her with all the things she planned to do. She just stared blearily, feeling the back of her head like she couldn't remember how she had ended up on the floor. Nezumi’s insides screamed at her to move, but she didn’t and she wouldn’t.

     The video showed the torture in its entirety. It must have been a terrible excitement for the Capitol citizens to watch a thirteen year old get mutilated live. Nezumi’s face tightened into a grim stare. That was all he could afford, because the cameras’ eyes glinted keenly at him around the stage. Fox would be especially interested in how he was taking this, and Nezumi would not give him the satisfaction of another outburst.

     Syrah didn’t kill Sylva. That was the worst part, and the reason Nezumi couldn’t ignore her. Once Sylva passed out from the agony and stopped screaming, the District 1 Career pouted, wiped her hands off on her pants, and slipped from the room, leaving Sylva in a pool of blood.

     And that was how he found her minutes later, broken and bleeding into the floorboards. Nezumi focused all his energy into being impassive as he appeared on screen, cautiously creaking the door of the hut open in case of ambush. He remembered the terror that ripped through him when he noticed the blood on the floor and the body. He almost backed out and ran for a different place to hide, but she saw him, and recognized him, and in a rush of disgust and pity, he recognized her as well.

     Sylva’s voice crackled softly through the speakers, whispering his name. On screen, Nezumi eyed her warily from the doorway. She whispered his name over and over, fresh blood running from the gashes on her face. It was awful, and Nezumi closed the door behind him and approached her to make it stop. He stood over her for a long minute and she stared back. He could see the tears glistening in the corners of her eyes.

     Sitting on his plush throne, Nezumi swore he could smell the thick scent of blood and piss and the primal scent of fear.

     “Please,” Sylva mouthed at him.

     He knew what she wanted. It was the only thing she could want in the state she was in. He wouldn’t use a knife on her, though, not again. But that left very few options.

     Even though she had asked for it, Sylva’s eyes rolled with terror when she felt his hand over her face. Nezumi eased up on her mouth and nose and shushed her. Then he began to sing. A simple mountain lullaby he didn’t even remember knowing. The terror in Sylva’s eyes subsided and she relaxed back to the floor. Nezumi continued singing, easing the pressure gently over her mouth and nose again, pressing until her eyes glazed over and the cannon fired. Then he sprang back and wiped his hand hastily on his pant leg, trying to scrape the feel of her face from his skin.

     In his chair, Nezumi balled his fists in his lap. The disgusted boy on the screen caught sight of the camera in the corner, and when Nezumi saw the feral look on his face, even he was afraid. The Nezumi onscreen drew in a sharp breath—

     —And the scene switched to a day later, when he was stalking through the woods in search of targets. On stage, Nezumi leaned forward in his chair.

 _They cut it out._ He had expected them to; he didn’t think the Capitol wanted to be reminded that he had snarled, “Fuck you,” at them, but he had wondered… It was better that they forgot. It had been a critical error. He should have kept his mouth shut and continued to play the role of indifferent but deadly participant. That second of weakness almost cost him his life.

     But that moment had flipped a switch inside him. From then on he gave the audience the show they wanted. And ironically this was the portion of the Games where he was the most unpopular. The gifts of food and supplies had trickled in steadily while he was waiting and picking off the single tribute that got in his way. He had received his knife from his sponsors, a real pretty piece that must have cost a fortune.

     But after his slip up, the gifts stopped.

     He ran into District 11’s final tribute and disposed of her quickly enough, though he underestimated her reach and got nicked on the head for his stupidity. The wound wasn’t life threatening, but it bled like a bitch, and he was convinced it was what caused him to suffer the far more serious injury at Glint’s hands later. Regardless, he didn’t receive anything to stop the bleeding on his head. He was forced to tie a strip of his clothing around his forehead and continued to forge on.

     He had played his hand well, there were only two serious contenders left: Syrah and Glint. District 4’s tributes were swept away in a poetic tidal wave while trying to harpoon the remaining tribute from 3. In an ironic twist of fate, the girl from 3 survived the tsunami—only to be killed an hour later by Glint. The male tribute from 9 hung in there way longer than Nezumi was sure anyone thought he would, but Syrah got him around the same time Nezumi had his showdown with Glint.

     Nezumi found him in the forest. He tried to conceal his footfalls, but Glint knew he was there regardless. Glint attacked first, swinging his halberd in a wide arc, and Nezumi hopped back. The shaft of the halberd was around five feet, and he had to be careful until he was certain he could make it inside its reach. Nezumi parried the halberd until he was sure even Glint’s heavily muscled arms were fatigued, then he waited for the next series of swings and ducked behind a tree.

     The halberd’s blade stuck in the bark, and Nezumi swung around the trunk and barreled toward Glint, hoping to plunge the knife into the Career’s heart in the few precious seconds he had gained. Nezumi did manage to get the knife into Glint, but inches off his intended target, just below his sternum. Glint had a knife of his own embedded to the hilt in Nezumi’s left shoulder. Nezumi and Glint gasped simultaneously at the searing pain of the metal in their flesh.

     Nezumi remembered the feeling of betrayal when he felt the knife slide into his shoulder—at his weapon of choice turned against him, at his utter lack of awareness. How did he not notice that Glint was carrying another weapon? Glint growled, and Nezumi tried to jerk himself out from his cloud of anxiety. He had missed the heart, but the wound was still mortal if he pulled the blade free and avoided the Career long enough for him to bleed out.

     Glint seemed all too aware of this. He gripped Nezumi’s arm hard with his free hand and pressed the knife in his chest tightly between the edges of his rib cage. Then he started pushing the knife in Nezumi’s shoulder up. He didn’t know what Glint meant to do—sever the tendons in his arm completely, force his way up to Nezumi’s neck—but it didn’t matter. It was the most excruciating pain Nezumi had ever known, and he was not ashamed that he screamed. Glint kept holding the one knife while pushing the other, pushing relentlessly even when his knife grinded against Nezumi’s collarbone and would go no further.

     In the darkness of the auditorium, Nezumi grit his teeth, feeling the phantom shriek of muscle and bone in his now healed shoulder. The torture felt endless back then, but the moment on screen was mercifully short lived.

     Nezumi roared in pain and anger and reared back to smash his already bloodied forehead into Glint’s. He hit hard enough that they both seemed to black out for a second, but Nezumi recovered faster. With a savage tug, he tore his knife from Glint’s chest. The force sent him stumbling back into the tree behind him. Glint snarled at him, a froth of blood and saliva bubbling to his lips. Nezumi didn’t wait for him to die or recover or whatever might happen next. He left Glint’s knife buried in his shoulder and ran as quickly as he could from the scene.

     The cannon fired shortly afterward and Nezumi fell to his knees in a puddle of dirty rainwater. He was so delirious with pain he couldn’t even feel relief at Glint’s death. All he could think was he would never survive Syrah with a dud arm.

     He lay motionless in the dirt as long as he could, but eventually he had to come to terms with the fact that no one was going to help him. There was nothing he could do but yank the knife from his shoulder and attempt to staunch the bleeding with what limited resources he had.

     The footage switched between Syrah lounging contentedly by the ocean and Nezumi huddled and bleeding in the forest. If he had been watching the moment live, it was obvious who he would’ve put his money on. Even the Nezumi on-screen was thinking about cutting his loses—quite literally—as he watched his heart pump his life away liter by liter.

     Nezumi swallowed and watched the screen intently, waiting for it.

     He had been toying with his knife, considering his best option, when it appeared. The camera switched back to him and stayed when a small silver parachute floated down from the canopy. Nezumi watched with bleary eyes as it glided to rest on his sticky, blood soaked arm. Inside the parachute was a silver med kit. It held standard first aid supplies: gauze, disinfectant, suture needles, and anti-inflammatory pills _—_ no more advanced than what he could find back in 7. Nezumi stared at it for a long second and then laughed. A genuine, hearty laugh, that filled his eyes with tears by the end.

     How could he not? His arm was literally sinews away from detachment, and out of all the high-tech medicines they had in the Capitol, someone decided to send him a med kit. With the clarity of hindsight, Nezumi now realized that even that dinky med kit must have been absurdly expensive for whoever sent it. Sponsor prices skyrocketed when the tributes were down to a handful, and Nezumi had a sneaking suspicion that mouthing off bumped his prices even higher than standard fare. But he wasn’t thinking about that then, and at the time, the med kit in his lap was sublimely funny.

     The gift came with a message. A single sliver of laminated paper with one word written in cramped, slanted script. The camera didn’t bother to show the message, but Nezumi remembered it well.

_“Don’t.”_

     The word wasn’t particularly special or inspiring, but when Nezumi read it, his laughter trailed off. It answered every desperate thought that ran through his mind since he’d been injured.

     The med kit didn’t help the pain much, but it had what he needed for a quick and uncomfortable set of stitches. That at least kept him from bleeding out. He rested a little longer and tested out his arm. It had a minimum range of motion and he could wiggle his fingers, but that was about the extent of it.

     He sighed and began a slow trek back toward the ruined city. There was no point in waiting; it was time to find Syrah and end the Games, for better or worse.

     Nezumi frowned at the beleaguered boy on the screen. He looked pale and pained and utterly helpless. He was glad he hadn’t been able to see himself in those final hours, because he did not look like a winner. Although… That was probably what led him to victory in the end.

     Once he was within the city limits, he stopped to do inventory. He still had his shiv and the two knives. He slipped his own knife into his boot and tucked Glint’s knife into the back of his pants. Not the safest places, but they were the most accessible. Then he found a broken glass bottle and ground it against a rock until he had a handful of powder. He wrapped it up in a piece of cloth and put it in his pocket.

     Syrah took one look at him and laughed. She saw his limp arm and bloody shirt and marked him as easy prey. He helped her assumptions along by facing her with his shiv only. A measly shard of glass against her hunting knife? He was handing her the win.

     Nezumi held his own against her at the start. He was in pain, but he had enough energy to dodge the swipes and jabs of her knife. Things became less promising when she cornered him inside a building. He made a stab toward her neck and she easily deflected it, sending his shiv flying across the room where it exploded into pieces against the wall. Before she got too close, he hastily whipped out Glint’s knife.

     Syrah looked displeased at the new weapon, but not discouraged. She took a step forward, but hastily scrambled back when he chucked the knife at her. He had hoped this first tactic would work, but the throw was off, and the hilt hit her face rather than the blade. Syrah snarled and came at him again, but like before he had replaced his lost weapon with another.

     Unfortunately, for this one to work, he had to take a hit. He turned aside as she stabbed and took her knife in his left arm—thankfully lower than the stitches, but he felt them tear in his shoulder anyway. He grinded his teeth against the riot of pain and lifted the cloth bundle. As the fabric fell open, Nezumi squeezed his eyes shut and blew hard. Hundreds of glittering green flakes flew into Syrah’s face.

     Syrah shrieked and scrubbed at her eyes, reflexively burying the glass dust deeper. Nezumi took a step forward, and Syrah pulled her hands away from her ruined eyes and swung blindly for him. He slashed her arm and kicked her legs out from beneath her. Syrah landed ungracefully on the concrete and howled, thick tears of blood streaming down her cheeks. Nezumi watched her writhe and bleed. She looked terrible, and yet he felt nothing but hatred, even now. He sat on her chest, pulled his final knife from his boot, and slit her throat.

     The cannon boomed. The sound was nearly drowned by the explosion of cheers in the auditorium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, the chapter was long :( I can't help it! I'm going to try to keep the rest shorter.


	2. Revelry

     “Such an intense Games,” Verde murmured as the Capitol anthem died. “I had chills from start to finish— _especially_ at the finish. Tell me, when you went head to head with Syrah in that final fight, what were you thinking?”

     Nezumi crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, a deliberately contemplative look on his face. He had already worked on an answer for this question with Gran. “To be honest… I was thinking of Sylva. Of what Syrah did to her.”

     “Oh?” Verde cocked her head. “But you couldn’t have known then that it was Syrah who hurt Sylva—you’ve only just seen the replay.”

     “I knew. I had my eye on District 1 from the beginning; I recognized her signature.”

     “And so in those last moments you were thinking of Sylva?” Verde bit her lip as if she were trying to hold back, but a second later she asked what they were all thinking. “Were you and Sylva perhaps…  _more_  than just District partners?”

     “What?” Nezumi furrowed his brow, a trace of surprise dancing across his face. “No. No, that’s not it.” He dropped his eyes to study his interlaced fingers. “Sylva and I… We weren’t in a relationship, but by the end… We were close.” He looked up at Verde. “To be honest, I didn’t even know who she was until Reaping day. But once we were chosen for the Games and started spending time together, I realized we had a lot in common. I started thinking…” Nezumi dropped his eyes again to hide his distress, “that this must be what having a little sister is like.”

     The audience made an assortment of compassionate noises.

     Verde whimpered along with them. “That’s right, you don’t have a family, do you? Oh, you poor dear!”

_Gee, thanks, Verde. Your sympathy is a balm to my orphaned soul._

     “That’s why when I saw what Syrah did to her, I just… I completely lost it. It was like losing my family all over again. I was so angry I barely remember doing those things to Glint and Syrah.”

     Verde laid a hand on his lap and Nezumi let her touch coax him into raising his head again. “You won,” Verde said softly. “I’m sure Sylva would have been proud of you. I know we are.” She smiled out at the audience, who murmured in agreement. “There, you see. I know you’ve had a hard, lonely journey these past few weeks, but you’ve gained so much as a result. A seat among the most honored victors in our history, pride for your District, and most of all, a new a family—the family of Panem!”

     The audience burst into applause and adoring shouts. Nezumi smiled gratefully. He realized he should appear more sycophantic, but his tolerance level was dangerously low after the recap.

 _Keep it together. Don’t lose the smile_ , he reminded himself. He had to present himself with the proper amount of emotion when Fox presented him with the crown.

     Fox rose from his chair in the front row. His small dark eyes gleamed at Nezumi as he mounted the stairs. A small boy trailed behind him, red-faced with the honor of carrying the victor’s crown alongside the most powerful man in Panem.

     “Congratulations,” Fox said, placing the gold circlet atop Nezumi’s head.

     “Thank you, sir.” Nezumi hoped the gruffness in his tone sounded like quiet pride, rather than the barely repressed hatred it truly was.

     Fox tilted his head, and Nezumi could’ve sworn he saw his ears twitch. “You should be proud, Mr. Singer. You played a good game.” He reached forward and Nezumi flinched instinctively. Fox smiled pleasantly and tucked a lose strand of hair behind Nezumi’s ear. “The people are quite enamored with you. Keep up the fine work,” he finished quietly. Then he gave Nezumi a congenial slap on the back and arranged himself by Nezumi’s side so the photographers could get a photo.

     Nezumi’s heart raced, but he held his smile as they rushed him off the stage amidst thanks and declarations of love. He let it drop the minute they’d shepherded him safely into the car headed to the Victory Banquet. Only then did he let himself feel sick.

 _Shit._ Nezumi leaned down and pressed his face between his knees. _What was that?_ The panel between the front and the back of the car was blacked out, so he had a few minutes to freak out in private before he had to put on the mask again.

    What did Fox mean? He was insinuating something unpleasant, obviously, but what? Was Fox just complimenting him on his acting ability, or hinting at something more sinister?

 _Why does everything have to be wrapped up in ambiguities here?_ Nezumi almost missed the cut and dry atmosphere of the arena. At least there you knew when someone wanted you dead. Even District 7 was preferable. Capitol politics were exhausting, and now he had to play their games for another four hours.

     Nezumi eyed the door, wondering how far he would get if he threw himself from the car. Better yet, what would the guards do to stop him? Tranq him? Drag him kicking and screaming to the banquet? That wouldn’t look very good, now, would it?

     But as fun as it was to entertain, Nezumi knew it was useless. There was no point in making a scene when he had spent all this time and energy making himself amenable to everyone. Besides, the car had no handles on the inside.

     Nezumi took a deep breath and released it slowly. He could do this. Only four more hours of smiling and schmoozing and he would be on a train back to District 7. Everything else he could figure out then.

     The car slowed and Nezumi glanced out the window. The President’s mansion loomed white and bright against the dark sky. Droves of finely dressed people climbed the steps, chatting excitedly in their lilting Capitol accents. A footman opened the car door and instructed Nezumi to follow him up to where his team was waiting.

     Nezumi surprised himself with how relieved he was to see Rou and Gran again. Rou looked almost young in his dark gray suit and tie. He was pushing forty-five or six, but you would never guess it, even in spite of his gray hair and sun creased face. He held himself with quiet composure at most times, but he looked especially mindful amidst the Capitol fare.

     Gran was the complete opposite. She seemed decades older than her thirty-six years and held herself so rigidly you’d think she’d calcify at any second. Her full name was Granny-Smith Grey, but no one dared call her anything but Gran in District 7, otherwise you’d find yourself sent home with a piece of rancid meat. She was as tart as her namesake, and her nickname fit her crotchety demeanor just as perfectly.

     She, of course, at least looked like a proper lady in her dark blue dress, but the moment she spotted Nezumi heading toward them, her eyes turned hard. She was in one of her moods; socializing in general had a poor affect on her. Nezumi couldn’t help but smile, which made her look darken further.

     Gregor fluttered as Nezumi approached. “Nezumi! You look fabulous. _Very_ tasteful, in fact. I’ll have to compliment your stylists...” His gaze raked up and down Nezumi’s figure, but in a refreshing deviation from the norm, he seemed to actually have eyes exclusively for his clothes. In fact, Nezumi was pretty sure Gregor had been talking directly to his suit jacket the whole time.

     “You did well today,” Rou said.

     “You did adequately,” Gran sniffed.

     “Thank you,” Nezumi said, knowing that both comments translated to approval according to his mentors’ idiosyncrasies.

     Rou offered Nezumi a small smile, and looked about to say something more, but Gregor had recovered from his envious leering and began to speak to Rou at breakneck speed. It was all Rou could do to nod.

     “You got sloppy at the end.”

     Nezumi turned toward Gran. She had maneuvered herself at the edge of the fruit display beside him and pretended to pick through the berries. Nezumi slipped his hands into his pockets and sighed.

     “And you’re still being sloppy, I see,” Gran growled. “What did I say about the sighing?”

     “No one’s around to hear but you,” Nezumi said.

     “One person is all it takes, boy. You know that.”

     Nezumi repressed another sigh. But Gran was right, as she usually was. “I just need a second.”

     “You don't have a second. This is _your_ party, boy—at least officially.” Gran piled her plate high with tropical fruit and made her way back to the standing table she shared with the rest of his team. She stabbed an appetizer fork into a pineapple slice and speared Nezumi with a look. “Go network.”

     Nezumi pursed his lips at her, but moved away towards the center of the room. The President had spared no expense on the decoration. Everything screamed refinement, from the chandeliers to the silky chairs and chaise lounges scattered around the room for partygoers to sprawl on.

     The banquet was even more excessive. There were breads, and nuts, and not one, but two large boars dripping juices on a spit. The mountains of food appeared to have no regard for the season; plump pumpkins shared a table with bowls of blackberries and livid strawberries. At the end of the room, a myriad of drinks meandered down the center of a table like a liquid rainbow. Their contents shimmered and winked in their crystal glasses, and Nezumi narrowed his eyes distrustfully, watching a guest take two glasses of clear liquid and scurry into the bathroom in a fit of drunken giggles. He turned away to find himself face to face with a table of immaculate sweets tiered around an ice sculpture of the Panem crest.

     The spread was impressive, sure, but Nezumi couldn’t help but think of the wastefulness of it all. Even with the amount that the Capitol ate, they wouldn’t make a dent in the food and drink provided.

     “You have a sweet tooth?”

     Nezumi wilted inwardly. He knew he’d have to do a fair amount of hobnobbing, but he had hoped it could wait until he had eaten. He wiped his face clean and faced his addresser.

     It was a young man—or teen, actually, probably within a year or two of Nezumi’s age. His hair was stark white and unkempt, long enough to cover his ears and forehead. Large, deep red eyes shone from beneath the boy’s bangs in poorly concealed excitement, and Nezumi noted an odd pink marking on his right cheek, tapered to a rounded edge that was not likely natural. It must be a piece of some kind of tattoo; Nezumi could see another band of pink wrapped around his neck above his dress shirt.

     His look was comparatively reserved for Capitol fashion, but to a normal person it was still a lot.

     The boy’s smile was friendly, but there was a touch of shyness in the way he held himself. It was apparent to Nezumi that this was a fanboy. He was a little younger than the standard guest at the party, but then he was probably some rich socialite’s son dragged along for the revelry.

     “Depends,” Nezumi answered truthfully. “But not usually.”

     “I’m partial to cherry cake,” the boy peered at the dessert table over Nezumi’s shoulder, “but it seems like that’s the only thing they don’t have. Surprisingly.”

     Nezumi hummed noncommittally. The boy fidgeted. Nezumi watched him grapple for another line of dialogue for the next few seconds.

     “I’m Shion, by the way,” he finally managed. Shion held out his hand to shake.

     Nezumi glanced at the proffered hand and squashed the initial impulse to swat it away, and the secondary impulse to ignore it. He took Shion’s hand and fixed him with a pretty smile.

     “Nezumi. But then, I think you already know that.”

     “Well... Yes. I’m actually here because of you.” Shion’s smile turned sheepish.

 _You don’t say_ , Nezumi thought drolly, and withdrew his hand.

     “Normally, I wouldn’t be able to get within a thousand feet of the President’s mansion. But all sponsors are invited as a courtesy.”

     Nezumi’s smile shrunk a fraction, and Shion started guiltily.

     “Oh! I didn’t mean it to sound that way,” Shion said quickly. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like I was using you to get to the banquet. I don’t even really care about the banquet, I wanted to sponsor you because I wanted to…” Shion trailed off near the end, rightfully realizing that he sounded like a bumbling idiot.

 _Sponsor? This kid?_ He must be very rich then, even if he didn’t look like much.

     Nezumi placed an amiable expression back onto his face. “I always expected sponsors to be older. But then I guess I owe you a thank you.”

     “No, you don’t.” Shion shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to sound like that. And I didn’t say it to get a thank you either. I just wanted to talk to you.” Shion sighed. “But I’m doing a horrible job. I’m not very good at talking to people in general.”

 _I’ll say,_ Nezumi muttered internally. He decided now would be a good time to ditch this kid and duck into the bathroom for a few precious seconds of quiet time. He turned toward the bathroom and locked eyes with Fox. He and a tall, spindly man in white were hanging by the soup table, which Nezumi would have to pass to escape to the bathroom. Fox held his gaze for a tense second then dropped it back to his companion.

_On second thought, let’s keep Shion talking._

     Nezumi turned back to Shion. “How about this? I’ll forget you mentioned how you got into the banquet, and in exchange, you tell me what that tattoo is.”

     “This?” Shion touched the pink stripe on his neck. “It’s a birthmark—well, the cheek part is. The rest is a tattoo. The doctors wanted to get rid of the mark when I was born, but my mom wouldn’t let them. But after a while people started making fun of me, so I had it covered up with a—” He paused, and his face flushed so that the pink smudge almost blended in. “Uh… A snake… tattoo,” he finished quietly.

     Nezumi laughed. He didn’t even have to force it, because the thought of this awkward youth trying to be edgy was ridiculous.

     “I know.” Shion mussed his hair and huffed. “But I was twelve. It seemed like a cool idea at the time.”

     “I bet,” Nezumi said, arching an eyebrow. “And at what age did you decide the red contacts were cool?”

     Shion stared wide-eyed at him, his blush growing deep enough now to contend with his eyes. Nezumi smirked. Maybe he could have fun at this party after all.

     Nezumi took a step back and gave Shion the once over. “That blush is actually a good look on you. Maybe for your next touch up, you could dye your skin tomato red.”

     “You can stop now,” Shion mumbled. “I get it.”

     “I’m only joking with you,” Nezumi said, still feeling pleased with himself. _These Capitol people are too easy._ “So why did you come over to talk to me? I doubt it was for fashion advice.”

     Shion had dropped his gaze to stare mulishly at the floor. “I came to apologize.”

     “For what?”

     “For what happened to Sylva.”

     Nezumi’s amusement evaporated. Shion was still staring at the floor when he continued.

     “I didn’t realize you and Sylva were close, but after what happened, I understand why you… Why you reacted the way you did. What Syrah did to her was awful. No person deserves to be treated like that.” Shion released a ragged sigh. “I know it doesn’t mean much, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what happened. No one should have to say goodbye to a friend in that way.”

     Shion raised his head and went instantly white. Nezumi knew he had lost his composure, but he didn’t care what expression he wore; he felt venomous.

     “You’re right. It doesn’t mean much,” Nezumi said, and Shion flinched. “Tell me, if you cared so much about Sylva, why didn't you sponsor _her_?”

     Shion swallowed thickly, and although he opened his mouth, he seemed unable to say anything.

     “What? Not enough money in daddy’s bank account?”

     “I…”

     “No, that’s not it. Probably didn’t even occur to you—why should it? She was never going to make it, no point in blowing money on a losing bet. Right?”

     Shion stared at him and Nezumi felt a curl of hatred in his chest at the guilty, dumbfounded look he wore. “You don’t care about Sylva. While we were starving and bleeding to death in the arena, you were busy enjoying your perfect little world, dying your hair and stuffing your face with cake. It must feel good to step off your pedestal once in a while and throw us District kids a bone. I understand how you’d think I would be grateful for your cheap sympathy, but don’t flatter yourself.”

     “I’m sorry,” Shion stammered. “I didn’t—”

     Nezumi pushed past him. “Enjoy the banquet. You worked hard to get here, after all.”


	3. Restraint

_Reckless_ , Nezumi chastised himself. Just because he was a victor didn’t mean he could go mouthing off to every Capitol citizen who struck a sore spot. _That’s what got me into this mess in the first place._

Even still, Nezumi felt a spike of spiteful satisfaction at leaving Shion gaping in his wake. Then he walked straight into Fox and the feeling died.

Fox and his companion stood in sharp relief to the colorful partygoers, Fox in his black three-piece suit and the other man in his white ensemble. They looked like some kind of deadly comedy act, and they were smiling at Nezumi like he was their next punch line.

“Mr. Singer,” Fox said, “we’ve been looking for you. I wanted to introduce you to Argus Rex.” Fox gestured to the man beside him.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Argus said with a nod. He thankfully did not initiate a handshake, but the smile playing in his eyes was just as discomfiting. “I was fortunate enough to be head Gamemaker this year. I hope my arena was to your liking?”

“It was adequate,” Nezumi answered. “I wish the weapons were a little more varied, but happily I was resourceful enough to make do.”

Fox pursed his lips and turned toward the Gamemaker. “I thought your arena was inspired. I especially enjoyed the city aspect.”

Argus shrugged a shoulder. “Thank you, Xeros. I was quite pleased with it myself. Although, I suppose Mr. Singer didn’t have much chance to enjoy its nuances. He hid for the majority of the Games…” Argus turned back to Nezumi. “Not that I’m upset by that; your tactics gave me valuable data for next year.”

Nezumi didn’t have any response to that, so he just smiled and nodded.

Something dark green streaked by in his periphery and Nezumi’s heartbeat sped, despite his rational mind telling him it was no danger. He glanced to the side, trying to appear calm. When he found the source of the movement, his skin still prickled, but for a different reason.

One of the servers was stooping to the floor, mopping a puddle of vomit up as quickly and covertly as he could manage. Nezumi recognized what he was on sight: an Avox. As traitors to Panem, they had their tongues cut out and were forced to obey every whim of the Capitol. There were a handful of them—identifiable by their forest green uniforms—serving at the banquet, probably to remind everyone to stay in line. It even looked like all the Avoxes at the party were former Capitol citizens. Some had vestiges of tattoos and the one nearest to Nezumi had no eyebrows. Nezumi guessed he had lasered them off in a fit of fashion some time before his arrest.

It was distasteful to see them pandering to the very people they hated enough to put them in their position. _I guess that makes two of us_ , Nezumi thought bitterly. He tore his eyes away from the Avox and found Fox staring intently at him. There was a calculating look in his eye that made Nezumi instantly alert.

“So,” Fox started again, “about that little outburst in the Games.”

Outside, Nezumi remained impassive, but inside he was a conflicting mess of hot and cold. He had hoped that this had been forgotten, but he should have known better than to be hopeful.

“I understand you were affected by that young girl’s death, but I hope there will be no more episodes like that in the future.”

The head Gamemaker had ostensibly become distracted by something on the dance floor, but Nezumi knew he was listening.

“I hope you don’t judge me on that incident,” Nezumi said slowly. He had to be careful with the measure of emotion in his voice. He needed to appear apologetic, even ashamed, but not guilty. “I was under a lot of stress at the time.”

The President frowned, and Nezumi knew whatever he expected to hear, Nezumi failed to give it to him. Fox turned and flagged over the eyebrowless Avox. The man approached with downturned eyes and held out a tray loaded with champagne flutes.

“Look at me,” Fox said. The Avox raised his head obediently. He had to; Avoxes couldn’t refuse direct orders. Fox smiled indulgently at him. “Tell me a joke.”

The Avox froze. His eyes darted from Fox to Argus to Nezumi in a flurry of panic—and pain. The tray the man was holding began to shake and Nezumi noticed his free hand was curled into a fist at his side. He was missing a few fingers. Nezumi grit his teeth.

Argus chuckled lightly under his breath and Fox’s smile broadened. Fox reached forward and took a champagne flute. “Never mind. Leave us.”

The Avox turned slowly and walked off, still shaking.

“The districts are very different from the Capitol, Mr. Singer,” Fox observed, sipping his champagne. “Here, people can’t say anything they want to. Especially not when they’re stressed.” He raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Yes, I think I do,” Nezumi deadpanned.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Gamemaker frown, but he didn’t give a flying fuck what Argus Rex and his ridiculous name thought of his tone. Fox just smiled.

“Excuse me,” Nezumi said. “I just remembered I promised that young lady a dance.”

Nezumi pivoted and stalked toward the first young lady he saw, which happened to be a girl quite close to his age. She was perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, politely pretending to listen to the elderly, heavily feathered woman beside her.

“Do you want to dance?” Nezumi asked roughly. Gran would’ve screamed herself hoarse if she saw him acting with such a hideous lack of restraint.

Both the girl and her companion started. The girl’s electric blue hair was artfully curled to frame her petite face, and her large brown eyes stared up at him with confusion. The confusion dissipated as she realized who he was.

“Sure,” she said, and then turned to the older woman. “Would you excuse me, Grandma?”

The old lady smiled cheerily and waved her forward. The girl rose, checked her dress skirts to ensure everything was in order, and strode out onto the dance floor without waiting for him to lead her.

She didn’t smile at him, but her face showed a pleasant expression, despite Nezumi’s obvious sullenness. This was a well-bred Capitol lady, to be sure, and blessedly she wasn’t the fluttering, frothing type that Nezumi had hitherto experienced. It gave him a chance to reconstruct his composure in peace.

“To what do I owe this honor?” the girl asked after a few minutes of dancing.

Nezumi weighed his answer and decided on, “I’ve spent most of this night talking to bigwigs and politicians. I thought it was about time I enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman.”

The girl arched an eyebrow at him, not quite believing, but playing along nevertheless. “That’s a high compliment from the man of the hour. And did you ever plan to ask the name of the ‘beautiful woman’ with whom you’re dancing? Or do you prefer to part strangers with the women you meet?”

Nezumi smirked. “My apologies. What’s your name?”

“Sapphire,” she sniffed, “but I prefer Safu. I won’t bother giving you my last name since, one, you won’t recognize it, and two, I know you don’t care because you’re obviously using me as a distraction.”

The girl glared a challenge at him. Nezumi wasn’t sure what to make of her words. Were they a flirtation, an accusation?

_Always better to treat it like a joke._

“I already admitted to that, didn’t I? You’re my getaway from Capitol politics. But if that bothers you, I can bring you back to your grandma.”

The fire in Safu’s eyes dulled. She shrugged a shoulder. “No, I was also looking for a distraction. Besides, now that we’ve started, we have to finish, or the tabloids will speculate too much.”

As they took a turn around the dance floor Nezumi saw what she meant; there were several cameramen and photographers scattered around the edges, taking furtive shots at them and the couples around them. _Wonderful_ , thought Nezumi and continued the next minute looking appropriately into the dance.

“Have you met any of your sponsors yet?” Safu asked as the music slipped seamlessly into another song.

Nezumi glanced down at her. “One. Why? Were you one?”

“Me? No, I don’t pay much attention to the Games...” She paused. “Which sponsor?”

“Said his name was Shion.”

Safu’s face lit with recognition, but it was an odd look, a mixture of relief and disapproval.

“A friend of yours?” Nezumi hazarded. Safu furrowed her brow and he chuckled. “Now who’s obvious? Is Shion’s last name another I wouldn’t recognize?”

“No, you definitely wouldn’t know his,” she said with a frown.

 _Hm…_ Something was off. Nezumi weighed his curiosity against her reticence.

Safu went quiet again for a moment, and then asked, “Did he tell you which gift was his?”

“Does it matter?”

Safu’s mouth tightened at the corners. “It does, actually.”

It was Nezumi’s turn to furrow his brow. Her dark eyes fixed on him expectantly. “He didn’t say."

Safu’s frown deepened, but she didn’t ask or share anything more, and Nezumi couldn’t decide whether it was worth prying further.

The song ended, and Safu stepped away from him. “It was a pleasure,” she said with a perfunctory nod.

Nezumi felt somewhat used as he watched her return to her smiling grandmother. He pressed his lips together to prevent himself from sighing and forced himself to socialize with a few other members of the party. Luckily, the majority of the Capitol citizens were painfully vapid and powerfully drunk, so conversation was easy and limited. After about two hours, Nezumi decided he had done enough and escaped toward the bathroom.

Once the door closed behind him, Nezumi released the sigh he had been holding in. Gran despised sighs. She said they were dangerous and a waste of breath, and she was right to a point. Sighing didn't solve any of his problems or cure his burgeoning headache. But there was some sense of solace in it and he felt better afterwards.

Like everything else in the mansion, the bathroom was elaborate. The powder room lay before him, complete with couches and full-length mirrors, although, thankfully, no one was using them at the moment. Nezumi shook his head and turned the corner toward the sink and toilet area.

One other person was in the bathroom. He had white hair and froze when he saw Nezumi in the mirror. Nezumi wanted to sigh all over again, but pointedly ignored Shion and went about his business. He was aware of Shion’s eyes following him as he crossed to the sink at the opposite end of the room.

Nezumi hastily dried his hands on a scented towel, threw it into the basket provided, and headed for the door.

“You’re right,” Shion’s voice rang out behind him.

Nezumi paused on the threshold and glanced back.

“I didn’t care about Sylva, at least not at the beginning. I felt bad for her when she was reaped, but I barely noticed her until she died. Even if I did notice her before… I wouldn’t have sponsored her. There can only be one winner; we all know that.”

Nezumi turned around to face him. Shion’s dark eyes bored into his, and Nezumi realized he was no longer wearing his contacts.

“But you’re also wrong,” Shion said. “I’m not unsympathetic, and I don’t enjoy seeing children from the districts die. I hate it.”

Nezumi scowled. Shion’s words still rang hollow to his ears. But no matter how little they meant to him, Nezumi was not unaware of the danger of the words spoken aloud. He could feel the conditioned tightness in his stomach, the paranoid prickle behind his neck as invisible eyes and ears leaned their way.

Shion seemed to feel the same skittishness at that moment, because he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. But his eyes still blazed, and his words held heat.

“I know you don’t believe me, and I don’t blame you. I’m not blameless. It’s too easy to ignore the tributes, to forget that they’re people— _children_ —and we’re sentencing them to death. We’ve grown accustomed to it. We’ve learned to ignore it, because it happens every year and there’s nothing we can do but watch. I see it here and in the districts. Everyone just… turns themselves off when the Games start.”

Shion sighed and turned his face aside. Nezumi watched his jaw tighten into a grim line. Shion stared down his reflection in the mirror until the frustration tattered and turned worn.

“But when I saw you singing to Sylva,” Shion continued, “when I saw the anger and pain on your face, I remembered how ugly the Games are. I remembered that every year the Capitol takes twenty-four children from their families, and only one gets to go home. So I made the decision that if only one was going to survive this year, I wanted it to be you.”

Nezumi felt very still. He realized that his scowl had slackened into a frown at some point. The person before him was very different from the faltering youth he spoke with at the start of the night. Then he had been overbright and ridiculous; now he seemed fuzzy around the edges.

Shion turned back to Nezumi, and Nezumi felt itchy under the quiet magnitude of his gaze. “That’s why I sponsored you,” Shion said, his voice clear and strong once more. “It wasn’t because I thought it would be fun, or because you’re attractive, or even because I thought you deserved it, because not one of those children’s lives was more important than the others. But if we needed a winner, I wanted it to be the only person left who still felt something.”

A strange turbulent soup of feelings stirred in Nezumi’s chest that he didn’t know what to do with, so he just frowned deeper. Shion tensed, apparently interpreting the look negatively.

“The first-aid kit,” Nezumi said after a moment.

Shion nodded once. Nezumi felt both heavy and hollow as the pieces slid into place. The first aid kit and the note were Shion’s doing. He had saved his life when the rest of the Capitol had left him for dead. Nezumi really _did_ owe him a thank you.

Nezumi crossed his arms and cleared his throat.

The door to the bathroom swung open and the pressure in the room popped like fine champagne. Shion startled badly and took a step back into a sink, bumping his hip audibly.

A man appeared at Nezumi’s elbow and traded glances between Shion’s pained, reddening face and Nezumi. He nodded once at Nezumi and then headed toward the bathroom stall.

Nezumi realized he had lingered too long. He took a step out of the doorway, toward the exit, but his eyes stayed on Shion and Shion watched him back from beneath the fringe of his bangs. Nezumi paused with the door held open, nodded at him once, and left.

On the way back to District 7, Nezumi couldn’t forget the answering look of relief on Shion’s face.


	4. Reunion

     Nezumi watched through unseeing eyes as the scenery outside the window streamed. He felt drained, and they had only just pulled out of the station.

     He could hear Rico and Kal begin to stir across the carriage. They had boarded as if in a dream, not quite believing that they were this year’s unlucky ones. Rico’s face was still streaked where the tears had made track lines in the dust on his cheeks. Nezumi couldn’t blame him for crying, even if it put him at a disadvantage; it was really bad luck to be chosen as tribute your first year in the drawing.

     Kal… They were a less of a surprise. Kal had taken so much tesserae out, it was only a matter of time.

 _Still…_ Nezumi cast a glance sideways at Rico and Kal. Gran was already getting into the introductory spiel, Gregor interjecting occasional inanities while Rou watched stoically on. Nezumi turned back toward the window before they caught his eye and pulled him in. He would have to join the conversation eventually. It was his duty as a mentor to fake confidence in the new tributes, but Gran and Rou seemed to have it covered for the moment.

     Seven months had passed since the Victory Tour, but it felt like he had never left the Capitol. Unlike the Victor’s Banquet, the Victory Tour party at Fox’s went by in a blur, and without incident.

     Perhaps because Shion had not been there.

     At first Nezumi thought that it was because sponsors were only invited post-Game, but he noticed a few familiar faces from the Victory Banquet. After socializing a bit, though, he discovered that these were very rich men and women, and they were invited to every party, regardless of purpose.

     He should have suspected that he and Shion might never meet again. If Shion hadn’t sought him out that night, they probably wouldn’t have met in the first place. Nezumi didn’t even think of him that often, at least not lately. In the first few weeks in 7 he had mulled over the Victory Banquet and the words he and Shion had exchanged many times. Mostly he regretted their carelessness, but every once in a while he would catch himself thinking that maybe some Capitol people were okay.

     In the last few months, Shion intruded on his thoughts seldom, but now that the Capitol was a mere three hours away…

_I wonder if he’ll sponsor again this year._

     Even as he thought it, he knew the chances were low. It was better for both their sakes if they never met again.

     Nezumi sighed silently and turned away from the window.

     “Nezumi,” Rou said. “It’s starting.”

     “Oh!” Gregor brightened and scrambled into the nearest chair to the television screen. “Come, come!” he called.

     The rest of the compartment had started to arrange themselves in a semicircle for the Reaping replay, and Nezumi slumped into the seat next to Kal.

     As per tradition, the coverage started in District 1 and went up through 12, and as per tradition, the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 outshined the others. Nezumi watched in resigned silence as the announcers bulldozed through the pathetic offerings from 5 and 6 before finally getting to 7.

     It was worse than Nezumi remembered. Kal looked devastated on the screen. They went stock still when their name boomed over the microphone, and only started moving when the girl next to them nudged their arm. Even though they tried to mask their fear afterward, their every twitch and shift radiated anxiety.

     Next to him, Kal grimaced and groaned under their breath. Nezumi was inclined to agree with the sentiment. Not a promising introduction to District 7, and Rico continued the disappointment. He stood a full ten seconds after his name was called, looking about in dumb disbelief as the crowd parted around him. Gregor had to call his name twice more before he trundled to the stage. He started crying when Gregor called for applause.

     “Uh oh, Cress,” said the one announcer to the other. “District 7 isn’t looking too good.”

     “Not good at all, I’m afraid,” Cress rejoined. “Unless those kids are playing the long game, it doesn’t look like District 7 will have another victor this year.”

     Nezumi scowled, and he wasn’t alone. Nearly everyone in the compartment was frowning; even Gregor began to look miffed as the disparaging comments continued.

     “We’re screwed,” Kal announced once the replay ended.

     “I wouldn’t say that,” Rou said, though his expression was inscrutable.

     “We looked like easy targets!” Kal jumped up and began pacing.

     “I won’t say you and Rico looked good, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a chance,” Gran said. “There were tributes who looked worse off. We just have to work out a good strategy.” She turned to Rico and frowned.

     Rico had discovered the table of food sometime during the Reaping and had tucked into a tureen of soup and half a basket of bread.

     “Slow down,” Gran said. “You’re going to choke.”

     Rico smiled guiltily through a mouthful of bread and managed a muffled, “sorry.” He swallowed with difficulty. “But the food is really good! We’re allowed to eat as much as we want?”

     “Of course!” Gregor said, plucking a grape from a platter and popping it into his mouth. “But I don’t recommend eating  _too_  much at once. Save some for your fellow tribute and mentors.” Gregor looked between Nezumi, Gran, and Rou and grinned. “I’m so glad I have a district where I can say that. ‘Mentors.’ Plural.”

     Nezumi rolled his eyes internally.

     “Do you want some food, Kal?” Rico held out a piece of bread to them.

     Kal snatched the bread from his hand, but continued to pace without eating it. “What kind of strategy?”

     “We’ll go over strategies tonight, but start with not looking intimidated in front of the camera,” Gran said. “It seems simple, but it’s important.”

     “A better attitude would help too,” Nezumi added.

     Kal glowered at him.

     “I’m serious. Sullen and aggressive don’t go over well in the Capitol.”

     Kal’s glower wilted. “So, what? I have to be, like… peppy or something?”

     Nezumi raised an eyebrow. “You can be peppy?”

     “No! That’s the point!” Kal threw themself into the nearest chair and tore a chunk out of the bread with their teeth.

     “Look, Kal, all you have to do is pretend. It’s not hard.”

 _The hard part comes when you win and have to pretend forever,_  Nezumi appended bitterly. Kal didn’t look convinced. They slumped further into their chair and picked at the bread until it resembled pillow stuffing. Nezumi crossed his arms.

     “Or you can continue to whine about it and resign yourself to an agonizing, sponsorless death. It’s your choice.”

     Kal looked up. “That’s not funny, Nezumi.” They tried to sound reproachful, but their face was a shade too pale for anger.

     “That’s right, it’s not. This isn’t a joke, Kal, but it is a game. And you don’t win by throwing tantrums like a four year old.”

     The color in Kal’s face rushed back in an instant. The look they gave him was pure acid.

     Nezumi smirked back.  _Better_.

     “That’s enough,” Rou said. “We’ll continue this conversation at dinner.”

\----

     They arrived in the Capitol in the afternoon, and after fighting through the crowd on the platform, they were escorted to the District 7 floor of the Training Center. Four servants were waiting for them, dressed uniformly in gray tunics. They looked young, but Nezumi couldn’t be sure because their features were largely obscured behind their kohl eye make up and the layer of white plaster over their mouths.

     A shiver of pity crawled across Nezumi’s skin. The Avox servants were another reason he hated the Capitol; only here was the threat of punishment literally at your beck and call.

Gregor frowned at the mute gray line of servants. “Where’s the other one? I asked for a server per person.”

     The Avoxes exchanged a brief look and then directed their gazes to the floor.

     “Well?” Gregor pressed.

     “Does it matter? They can’t answer you anyway.” Nezumi managed to sound bored rather than pissed, but Gregor still had the decency to look embarrassed.

     To cover his fluster, he demanded they all go to their rooms and wash up before dinner.

     Nezumi claimed the first room he found and shut and locked the door behind him. The room was spacious and earth toned, with a king size bed planted against the far wall. A mirror hung above the headboard, which seemed to Nezumi in questionable taste. But then perhaps Capitol people enjoyed watching themselves entering their bedrooms. The thought actually made him feel dirty, so he went directly into the shower.

     He didn’t feel like dealing with his hair afterward, so he swooped it up into a messy bun and took a long look around the room again, pinpointing the most conspicuous areas. Nezumi started with the desk lamp.

 _Gotcha._ Nezumi plucked a coin-sized transmitter from the underside of the lamp and dropped it on the notepad on the bedside table. The television was next. He couldn’t find anything there, but he suspected there was a camera implant in or around it, even if he couldn’t see it.

     Once he was through with the full sweep of his room, he had found three bugs and no cameras.

     “That will have to do,” Nezumi muttered to himself, and relocated the listening devices to the far corner of his walk-in closet where they would safely record silence.

 _Two weeks_. Nezumi plopped down on the bed. That was the minimum amount of time he could be in the Capitol, though the Games usually went longer than that. He thought it would feel weird to be back but not participating, but he just felt numb and tired.

     Nezumi tried his best to take a nap before dinner, but sleep wouldn’t come. He ended up staring at the ceiling, watching the light outside fade by increments until Gregor called him down to eat.

     The spread was impressive, as usual. Nezumi had a sneaking suspicion that the menu was near identical to last year’s. He scoured the table and found what he wanted: toasted hazelnut soup. Gregor had balanced the seating so that he and the tributes were on one side and the mentors on the other.

     “There he is,” Gregor chirped as Nezumi approached the table. “Sorry about the wait. The help was running a bit behind.” He eyed the servants lining the wall with disapproval, and in response they tried to shrink further into the yellow wallpaper.

     Nezumi took his place next to Rou, thankful that the mentors’ seats faced away from the servers. He helped himself to a large portion of soup and a glass of cider.

     Rico already had his plate piled high, and seemed intent on taking a bite of everything and finishing nothing. For a kid who was used to a handful of food a day—if he was lucky—his appetite was unsurprising, but Nezumi felt mildly impressed with his vigor. If the Hunger Games was a literal competition, then Rico would be a top contender.

     Kal picked at their beet and goat cheese salad with a look of disgust. Nezumi watched them scrape every beet to the edge of the dish before they gave up and traded the plate for a lamb shank. A young female server swept in from the side of the room and cleared the abandoned plate from the table, quick and silent as a bird.

     “Can we talk about our strategy now?” Kal said after enduring a few minutes of small talk.

     Gran placed her silverware down. “Yes. As I’m sure you’re both aware, you will need to make a strong impression on the Capitol, and most importantly sponsors. Every tribute has a selling point; we need to figure out what yours is.

     “That will get you through the first week here, but what actually matters are the weeks in the arena. You can make a great first impression, but if you die, the sponsors can’t help you. So, it comes to this: what are your skills?”

     Kal and Rico stared blankly at Gran throughout her speech, looking more and more overwhelmed as she lectured on. When she posed her question, they shrunk in their chairs.

     “Well?” Gran prompted.

     “Um…” Rico started. “I can run pretty fast?”

     Rou nodded. “That’s good. Speed is an asset. What about you, Kal?”

     Kal gnawed their lip. “I’m… good with dogs…”

     Nezumi’s heart sank in spite of itself, and Rou and Gran wore matching frowns. They all knew about Kal’s affinity for the wild dogs roaming District 7. It wasn’t often one saw Kal without a mangy dog or two in tow; it was so common a sight that they had earned the nickname, “Dogkeeper” among the townsfolk.

     But being a dog person wouldn’t help Kal win the Games; any animals in the arena were likely to be a food source, or worse, a mutt.

     “I can climb too,” Kal added in a rallying effort.

     “Climbing is good,” Gregor enthused. “You can just climb and hide until it’s over.”

     “And if the arena is a desert?” Gran said flatly.

     “Well…” Gregor pressed his lips together in defeat and signaled a server over to refill his wine glass.

     “Some kind of combat skills would be good…” Rou said, trailing off with a vaguely hopeful look on his face.

     Rico stared down at the potatoes on his plate and shook his head. He looked like he was about to cry.

     “Look,” Kal said, “I spent my whole life in the crappy slums of District 7, and I’m still alive. Doesn’t that account for anything?”

     “Count,” Gregor said.

     Kal turned to him. “What?”

     “It’s ‘count’ for anything, not ‘account.’ They’re similar sounding, so I can understand—”

     “Who cares!” Kal shrieked. “I survived fourteen years by myself, with no help from anyone else, so doesn’t that freaking matter?”

     “No, it doesn’t,” Nezumi said evenly. “While you were barely surviving, the Career districts were eating well and training. The moment you step into that arena you’re at a disadvantage, so if you don’t figure out a plan, you might as well lay down at their feet.”

     “That’s just unfair,” Gregor sniffed. “Everyone knows training’s against the rules.”

     Nezumi shrugged. “But they get away with it.” He turned back to Kal. “You could’ve been training too. You should have been practicing some sort of skills instead of wasting time with those mutts. With the amount of tesserae you take out in year, you must have suspected your time was limited.”

     Kal clenched their jaw. The table was quiet for long uncomfortable moment.

     “You’re a bastard, you know that?” Kal said at last.

     Nezumi shrugged again. “But I won the Games.”

     “Fine, like you said, I have no skills, and I can’t beat the Careers,” Kal ground out. “Then what the hell should I do?”

     “I suggest hiding, like I did last year. You’re pretty small, so you have a good chance of going unnoticed—but that’s assuming that the arena has places to hide. If it doesn’t… Well, I’m sure you can use your hard earned survival skills to figure it out.”

     “Fine! I’ll hide! That’s my strategy,” Kal spat at Gran. “Happy?”

     Gran pursed her lips. “That will do for now.”

     Nezumi smirked and downed his cider. He raised a hand to call for a refill, and a moment later a server appeared at his elbow in a rustle of gray fabric. Nezumi shifted to allow them easier access to his glass and caught a glimpse of white in the corner of his eye.

_Shion?_

     Nezumi did a double take. It _was_ Shion. The same white hair, pink tattoo, and dark eyes, outlined thickly with kohl at the moment.

     Nezumi inhaled sharply. _No._

     Shion’s eyes widened with warning when they met Nezumi’s. He shook his head slightly and filled the cider glass as quickly as he could manage with his shaking hands. Nezumi turned away and forced himself to be still, to not follow Shion’s retreat to the edge of the room to stand with the other servers. The other Avoxes.

     The soup in front of him looked turbid and the scent coated his throat in a film of sickly sweetness. He forced a spoonful down to wash the taste of bile from his tongue.

     “Are you listening?” a voice snarled from across the table.

     Nezumi looked up. Through his swimming vision he saw Kal sneering at him.

     “You’re not listening!” Kal confirmed. “For fuck’s sake, Nezumi! Can you at least pretend to give a shit?”

     “Enough with the language,” Gregor huffed. “No one likes a lady with a potty mouth.”

     “For the hundredth time,” Kal growled through their teeth, “I’m not a lady.”

     Nezumi’s head pounded. He needed to get out of here.

_I need to talk to Shion._

     Nezumi snatched his cider and chugged it. He set the glass down at the edge of the table and waited. Shion slunk back to his side. Nezumi waited until the glass was mostly full and then tugged on the corner of the tablecloth.

     The room froze in horror as the glass spilled into Nezumi’s lap.

     Gregor shot to his feet. “What are you doing!” he barked at Shion. “Clean that up this instant!”

     Shion cringed and looked ready to run for a cloth, but Nezumi stopped him with a word.

     “No.” Nezumi rose and locked eyes with him. “Come with me. Now.”

     Nezumi didn’t look back, but he knew Shion trailed him out of the room. He could feel the silence pressing down on them as they traveled down the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. The click of the door shutting behind them sounded thunderous to his ears.

     Nezumi walked to the center of the room and stood facing his bed, unable to turn around. But he could see Shion reflected in the mirror over the headboard. Nezumi drew in a breath and faced him. Shion’s head was bowed, his gaze obediently directed to the floor. Nezumi swallowed.

     “…Shion?” His voice came out as a dry whisper.

     Shion lifted his head and the air stole from the room. A pale, restless wraith stood before Nezumi, half shrouded in shadow. His eyes were two black smudges against a washed out canvas. With his mouth painted over and blended into his face, Shion looked like a tragic imitation of a human.

     Regret pressed heavily against Nezumi’s chest, but he forced himself to stare until his breathing evened out.

     He turned away and walked briskly around the room, rechecking the lamps, the television, the speakers. He dragged the side table away from the armchair and stood on it to check the light fixture in the center of the ceiling. He found no cameras or listening devices, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

      Shion’s brows were furrowed in confusion when Nezumi motioned him to come closer. He grabbed the pen and paper from the bedside table, scribbled on it, and held it out to Shion. The make up was less ghastly up close, and the churning in Nezumi’s stomach was ebbing away to anger.

     Shion stared at the paper longer than it took to read the one word on the pad: _When?_

     Even without a mouth, Shion’s expression was plain in the pinched corners of his eyes. He assessed Nezumi, but Nezumi’s hard look insisted. Amazingly, Nezumi thought he heard Shion sigh through his nose as he wrote his reply in cramped, slanted script.

_The day after the banquet._

     Nezumi felt sick as he read the words. He knew. The moment their eyes met in the dining room, Nezumi had known. They had been too reckless that night. The man that interrupted had heard and reported them. Or there were cameras and microphones hiding in bathroom. Of course there were, there was surveillance everywhere. They _knew_ that—why did Shion say those things? And why didn’t Nezumi stop him?

     Shion wrote again. _It’s not your fault._

     Nezumi wanted to slap the paper from his hands. “It doesn’t matter if it was my fault,” he hissed through his teeth.

     He left Shion and walked to the center of the room. Shion shouldn’t have been stupid enough to say the things he did, and Nezumi should have stopped him, or shouldn’t have baited him in their first encounter, but that wasn’t what mattered. Fox had punished Shion and assigned him to 7 so Nezumi would see. So he could keep him in line.

     Nezumi had no family or friends his enemies could use against him, but Fox’s message said that wouldn’t stop him from making examples of anyone he came in contact with, no matter how close they were. Maybe he couldn’t touch Rou or Gran because they were victors, but everyone else, even near strangers, were fair game.

     Something brushed his sleeve and Nezumi whirled around. Shion took a step back and held up the paper again. Nothing new was written on it, but one word had been traced over and underlined.

_It’s **not** your fault._

     Nezumi leered at Shion. An air of defiance shined in his eyes, even under all the makeup. Nezumi snatched the pad back and tore up the marked page.

     “Get out.”

     Shion flinched, and Nezumi had to turn away. He waited to hear the soft click of the door before he sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands.


	5. Reminder

     Nezumi didn’t sleep. He changed his clothes and spent the next six hours in bed staring at the ceiling. This was a common way his nights went since he became a victor, but tonight his mental purgatory was deeper and darker than any night before.

_Why now?_

     Why was Fox putting Shion in his path now? They only met once and Shion had been arrested that very night. That meant Shion had been an Avox for almost a full year.  _Why didn’t Fox show him to me on the Victory tour or at the ball last December?_

     Perhaps the President wanted to remind him not to make another mistake in the Games. Or to ensure he didn’t give this year’s tributes any deviant ideas. Last year Nezumi knew Fox and the Capitol’s eyes were constantly on him. After the warning Fox gave him at the Banquet, Nezumi didn’t stray from what was expected during the Victory Tour.

     But now that the Capitol was distracted again with a new Game and fresh tributes, some of the pressure eased off. The new tributes were unknown elements and required more monitoring and care from the President and his team. But Fox wanted Nezumi to know that just because his resources were elsewhere didn’t mean he had stopped paying attention.

     Nezumi grit his teeth and turned onto his side. The window screens were playing a peaceful forest scene in the early stages of dawn. If he strained his ears he could make out the soundtrack of bird twittering and leaves rustling from the speakers overhead.

     Whoever set the room up probably thought it would be soothing. A forest scene for the homesick residents of District 7. Like most things in the Capitol the thought was oversimplified and wrong. The forest was not just pretty scenery to the people of District 7. It was their livelihood and the site of their oppression. It was the place where good people died trying to live.

     Phantom pain fanned over his back and Nezumi clenched his jaw against the burn he knew no longer existed. When the Capitol fixed him up for victory they had done more than heal his wounds; they had given him a full makeover, complete with flawless skin.

     He remembered the shock he felt when his prep team stripped him down and he saw soft white skin where the angry scar had once taken up the lower half of his back. The prep team had gushed about what a beautiful job the cosmeticians had done, but all Nezumi could think was that the Capitol had taken everything from him.

     He had few memories of his parents and his baby sister, but he remembered the fire that killed them and dozens more well. He and Kal had been the only survivors, although Kal had no recollection of the accident. They were barely a month old, and would have perished too if their mother had not been brave enough to sacrifice herself.

     His burn had been a badge of survival, but more importantly, it was the only thing he had to connect him to his family. And the Capitol scrubbed it away like dirt.

     Nezumi snatched the remote from the side table turned the display off. Sunlight burst into the room full blast. Nezumi hissed and threw the blankets over his head, stabbing buttons on the remote until the shades came down. He grumbled expletives in the dark until a soft knock on the door made him quiet.

     Nezumi pushed the covers off and stared at the locked door. Silence on the other side. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 7:00am.

     “What?” he called.

     A tendril of dread swirled in his stomach as the silence behind the door persisted. Then:

     “Nezumi?” A small, nervous voice. Rico’s. “Erm… Gran wants you to come down and eat breakfast with us.”

     Nezumi released the breath he was holding. “Yeah. Okay. Be down in a minute.”

     He pulled on the first shirt and pair of pants the closet generated for him and headed downstairs.

     Nezumi slowed as he approached the dining room. The shock was over; he was confident he could act like he didn’t know Shion. He couldn’t be sure of Shion’s acting abilities, but at the very least he would know not to draw attention. As long as they kept quiet they would be fine. Despite every reassurance, however, Nezumi’s heart pounded.

     Everyone was already well into eating when he arrived. All except Gregor, who was absent. Nezumi considered asking after him, but he wasn’t all that interested.

     The table was stocked with all the breakfast staples and a few show off pieces. Nezumi noticed the one side of the table was piled with dirty dishes. The servers were nowhere to be seen.

     Rou looked up. “Good morning, Nezumi.”

     “So nice of you to finally join us,” Gran muttered to her fruit salad, and Kal’s mouth quirked up at the corners.

     Nezumi primly ignored Gran and took the empty seat at the head of the table. He pretended to eye the food, taking a furtive look around the room again, but there was no sign of any servants at all, Avox or otherwise. Nezumi grabbed an apple and munched on it in thoughtful silence.

     “So,” Rou said, “today’s the first real day of Games preparation.”

     “That’s right. First, you’ll go to the Remake Center, where you will not object to anything they try to do to you,” Gran said, fixing her hard stare on Kal. Kal’s face clouded over, but before they could make any retort, Gran turned away and continued. “When you’re done, you’ll meet your stylists and dress for the parade.”

     “After the parade, you go directly to your first day of training,” Rou finished. “There are three days in all. Make the most of them.”

     A pause followed and Nezumi could feel the eyes of his fellow mentors on him. Kal and Rico’s gazes naturally followed. Nezumi repressed a sigh and swallowed his mouthful of apple.

     “I don’t have much to add,” Nezumi said. “But I wonder what ugly costume they’ll come up with for you two this year.”

     Rico frowned with a forkful of hash browns halfway to his mouth. Kal wrinkled their nose.

     “Ugh… I forgot about that,” Kal grumbled. “They always make us look like garbage.”

     “Last year’s costumes were okay,” Rico said.

     Nezumi quashed a shiver of disgust.

     Kal snorted. “Oh yeah. The deer costumes. Those antlers were a real good look on you, Nezumi.” They flashed a nasty smirk at him.

     Nezumi smiled blandly back. “My looks can sometimes be a curse. Not all of us are fortunate enough to have a face as unremarkable as yours, Kal.”

     Kal paused. “You just insulted me, didn’t you.”

     “Sounded like it,” Rico said absentmindedly as he crammed another helping of eggs down his gullet.

     “You can’t help how your stylists dress you,” Rou sighed. “All you can do is make the best of it.”

     “Even if you hate what you’re wearing, don’t let it show on camera,” Gran said. “Smile, wave, blow kisses—do whatever you have to do to draw sponsors in.”

\----

     Kal and Rico were much cleaner and smelled much better after the Remake Center, but Nezumi had never seen them look quite so miserable. Kal kept casting spiteful looks at their clean-shaven legs, and Rico’s face was so red from scrubbing he looked burned. Nezumi felt a twinge of pity for them.

     The twinge turned to a spasm when their stylists arrived with honest to goodness tree costumes. Full brown bodysuits with layers of leaves and pinecones wrapped around them, complete with twig headpieces. The prep team cooed and fussed over how sweet Kal and Rico looked. Kal met Nezumi’s eyes and they both shook their heads. It was the first non-hostile look they had shared, and it was well deserved.

     Rou and Gran pulled them aside to give them some cheering up and Nezumi slunk away to survey the competition. Districts 1, 2, and 4 were always a problem, and this year their tributes looked tough. The girls were lithe but strong, and the boys were massive. The less prosperous districts like 11 and 12 had their typical scrawny competitors, so Nezumi wasn’t worried there, but both tributes from 6 and the girl from 10 had him on edge.

 _They could be trouble._ He would tell Kal and Rico to keep an eye on them in training.

     All in all, these Games weren’t looking too much in District 7’s favor. The only consolation was that every district’s parade outfit was equally hideous.

     “Nezumi.”

     Nezumi turned. A short girl had pushed her way through the crowd to his side. He recognized her petite features and electric blue hair.

     Nezumi cocked his head. “…Safu, right?”

     Her eyes lit up. “Yes, that’s right. We met last year at the Victor’s Banquet. It’s so nice to see you again.”

     Nezumi smiled back at her.  _This is weird…_

     “Your tributes’ outfits look good.” She managed to sound sincere, but something in her eyes told Nezumi she felt the same as he did about the styling. “My grandmother is a stylist for District 8.” Safu gestured to an older woman across the enclosure. She was fluffing up the huge textile bows on the sides of her tributes’ heads.

     “Your grandmother is talented,” Nezumi lied.

     “Thank you. Usually only the stylists and their teams are allowed down here, but I begged her to let me tag along. I’m such a big fan of the Games, I couldn’t turn down the chance to see the parade preparations up close.” Safu clasped her hands in front of her and smiled. “But since it’s technically against the rules, I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone she snuck me down.”

     Her smile was superficially convincing, but Nezumi was in the business of lying through smiles, and he could see hers was nervous around the edges.

_Very weird…_

     But then, if their last conversation was anything to go by, Safu had an ulterior motive. He wasn’t certain what it was this time, but he had an uneasy feeling that he might guess if he wanted to.

     “Your secret’s safe with me,” Nezumi said, and waited.

     Safu wrung her hands and glanced at the chariots. Nezumi followed suit and noted District 1 looked just about ready to set off. If Safu had something to say, she’d better get to it quickly.

     Safu turned back to Nezumi. “I wish they served food at these preparations, though. Finger foods or something. Even a few pastries would be good.” She pushed a little more levity into her voice as she continued, “I don’t know if you like pastries, but there’s a great shop just around the corner. Karan’s. I usually stop by there around lunchtime to see what the cake of the day is. You should try it out if you have some free time.”

     “That does sound good,” Nezumi said. “We don’t get many occasions to eat sweets in 7, but maybe I’ll treat myself while I’m here.”

     Safu’s smile grew a mite more confident. “I highly recommend it. Today’s special is cherry cake.”

     Nezumi swallowed, but Safu was already pulling away.

     “I better get back; the parade looks like it’s about to start.” Safu gave him a polite nod. “It was nice seeing you again, Nezumi.”

     She melded into the crowd and Nezumi had a feeling of déjà vu.

 _Karan’s._  A roar of cheers exploded from the onlookers as District 1’s chariot started its circuit around the City Center. 

\----

     Once the tributes had finished their circuit they were ferried off to their first day of training. This meant that the mentors had a few hours to themselves to do with what they wished. Gran and Rou planned to attend the Victor’s luncheon to see their friends from previous years. They urged Nezumi to come as well, but he declined. Gran only looked miffed instead of disapproving, so Nezumi knew he had almost grinded her down to indifference. If he kept on the way he did she and Rou would soon stop turning to him for mentorship input.

     They went their separate ways as they exited the chariot stable and Nezumi stood a moment on Victory Rd, taking in the garish Capitol life. The weather was mild, and people took advantage by showing off their most daring outfits.

     Nezumi had been stung by Tracker Jackers once and the hallucinations he suffered at the time were nothing compared to the throw up of color and styles he saw walking around him. A whole cluster of young people in front of him looked like they were each in the process of molting into a different tropical bird. The saddest part was that amongst the exuberant taste of the Capitol, it was Nezumi’s nondescript outfit that stood out. A few passersby waved and grinned at him in recognition.

     Nezumi’s shirt had a cowl, and he was thankful for it once he pulled it up and joined the throng of people. When it was up he was rendered unfashionable and unrecognizable, which meant less people paid him mind. Nezumi stayed close to the buildings around the City Center, his eyes scanning the signs as he passed.

 _Karan’s_. Nezumi drew to a stop in front of a prim white building. The door was propped open, and through it wafted the fresh scent of baked bread and powdered sugar. Racks of sweets lined the windows, and in the center of each sat a large cake. Today’s looked to be cherry, as Safu had said. The name of the bakery was scrawled in bubbly yellow letters over the doorway.

     Nezumi brushed the cowl off his head and checked his watch. Just a little past 11:30. He didn’t know what Safu meant by lunchtime, but it seemed like a good time to peruse the bakery.

     The mouthwatering scent grew stronger once he stepped inside and Nezumi’s stomach grumbled appreciatively. The space was moderately sized, but he saw no customers and no one behind the counter at the moment.

     He studied the cake in the window. It was crafted in a bundt shape, dark red, and drizzled with pieces of cherry and almond. It looked sophisticated and succulent, and Nezumi wanted a piece even though he didn’t like cherries much.

     “Hello.”

     Nezumi nearly jumped, but he controlled it down to a flinch and turned to face whomever snuck up on him. A woman of somewhere between thirty and forty years old stood behind him. She was a bit plump, but no less pretty for it, and her shoulder length brown hair was streaked with bronze and deep red, which complemented her light brown eyes.

     “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the woman said with a smile. “I think I know you… Nezumi, right?”

     Nezumi nodded. The woman’s face looked familiar, although he knew he had never met her before.

     “Yes, I remember you from last year. I’m Karan. Although you probably guessed from the sign outside.” Karan nodded with her head toward the door, since her hands were occupied with a tray of cookies. She tilted her head at him. “I’m surprised to see a victor here, though. I don’t get many high profile customers, even though my recipes are delicious.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, and Nezumi found himself warming to her unaffected demeanor. “If you like what you buy, please put in a good word for me with the other victors, would you?”

     Nezumi chuckled. “I can try, but being the new victor, I can’t promise my word has much sway.”

     “Ah well.” Karan moved up beside him and balanced the tray on her knee as she began dispatching cookies onto a display. “Would you like a cherry cake? I saw you eyeing it.”

     Nezumi opened his mouth to reply, but spotted a flash of electric blue outside the window. He and Safu locked eyes and Safu made a beeline for the bakery door.

     Karan straightened. “Safu!”

     “Hello, Miss Karan,” Safu said warmly. She closed the door behind her and turned to Nezumi with a serious expression. “You came.”

     “I had some free time.”

     “Thank you for coming. I wanted to talk to you, but there didn’t seem to be a good place.”

     Nezumi glanced at Karan. “And here is…?”

     Karan finished with the cookies and looked between them. “I have a fresh batch of that hazelnut bread you like in the back, Safu. Come try it. You too, Nezumi.”

     Nezumi followed the two women into the back room. Flour bags lined the walls and the counters were covered in half-made breads and pastries. Nezumi spied a cot through a cracked door at the end of the room.

     Safu took a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you about the night of the Victor’s Banquet.”

     A weight settled in Nezumi’s chest.

     “Do you remember the friend I mentioned?”

     Safu’s eyes were intense in their darkness. Nezumi wanted to lie. He wanted to say no, claim no knowledge of what she was insinuating, and leave. He didn’t want to have this conversation when the knowledge he had was still so freshly acquired, and he didn’t want to get caught up in whatever this would turn into.

     “Why?” Nezumi hedged.

     Safu’s stare retreated a degree. “Something happened that night…” She trailed off and crossed her arms. “I want to understand what happened. You said you spoke to Shion—what did he say to you, exactly? Do you remember?”

     “Shion?” Karan’s eyes grew wide, and Nezumi indentified fear and pain swimming in their depths. The weight in his chest grew to crushing. He realized why Karan looked so familiar.

     Karan’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “What are you talking about?” She started the question facing Safu, but her light eyes ended up searching his face for answers. “Nezumi?” she said faintly. “You knew my son?”

_I shouldn’t have come here._

     Nezumi swallowed. “I know him.”

     Safu stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”

     “I’m guessing you already know what happened after the Banquet. The why isn’t really important.” The words felt removed from himself, as though his mouth and his mind were separate entities. Instinct told him to run, but he owed Shion’s family this much.

     Karan and Safu watched him, transfixed. The anticipation in their eyes made him feel sick.

     “He works in the Training Center. As an attendant on my floor.”

     Karan inhaled sharply and covered her mouth. Safu rested a hand on the older woman’s arm, but it appeared to be an unconscious response. Her own expression looked similarly stricken.

     “He seemed well when we met,” Nezumi said, because it seemed like the right thing to say to a mother. “He’s safe for now. You have nothing to worry about.”

     Karan’s eyes brimmed with tears. She turned and fled the room, leaving Safu’s hand hanging in dead space. Nezumi’s mouth felt dry and empty.

     Safu hugged herself. “I see… Thank you.”

     Nezumi had never felt more like shit. What happened to Shion wasn’t even his fault, not really. He knew this, he told himself over and over again, but he kept thinking about the bakery with its homey but demure exterior, of the just visible crowfeet in the corners of Karan’s eyes, the puffs of flour on her apron. These were Shion’s roots, and in the Capitol it didn’t get more humble than this.

     “Where did he get the money?”

     Safu’s brow furrowed, but her mind was somewhere else.

     Nezumi made himself repeat the question, louder and stronger. “Where did Shion get the money to sponsor?”

     Safu’s look sharpened in an instant. “He…” She pressed her lips together. “He used his college fund.”

     Nezumi clenched his jaw, but found himself nodding. “I’m leaving.”

     Safu said nothing and Nezumi moved around her toward the front of the bakery.

     “Nezumi, wait!”

     It was Karan’s voice and, despite every instinct, Nezumi stopped with his hand on the front door. Karan hurried over to him with a cake box. Her nose was pink and her eyes puffy but dry.

     “Please, take this.” She pressed the box into his hands and Nezumi didn’t dare refuse. “This is for you, but… Please share with your friends, too. If you can. Okay?”


	6. Regret

     When Nezumi did sleep, it was an endless parade of nightmares. Almost every one featured fire, and tonight was no different. Flames swallowed the dreamscape, but he could make out a blackened fountain and crumbling buildings around him. He couldn’t see anything but smoke and ash, but he knew someone lurked in the flames, same as he knew that Sylva lay bleeding somewhere he couldn’t see.

     Nezumi searched desperately for her but no sound came out when he called. He wandered blindly until he stumbled and fell over Sylva’s body. A feeling of self-hatred and helplessness washed over him as he watched the life ebb out of her, but he knew he couldn’t let himself be consumed by it; Syrah was close.

     He felt her presence behind him, her hand on his shoulder. He whirled around and knocked her to the floor before she could get her knife into him.

     But when the smoke dissipated, the person beneath his hands wasn’t Syrah. Shion stared back at him, his dark eyes bright with fear. This was a new development, but Nezumi couldn’t say he was surprised.

     Shion grabbed his wrist and dug his nails into the flesh there. The pain was sharp and stinging. A jolt of panic shot through Nezumi’s chest.

_This is real._

     “Shit.” Nezumi let go of Shion’s neck and rolled off him. There was no smoke, no crackle of flames, just the soothing sounds of the forest playing on the speakers above his bed.

     Shion sat up and Nezumi’s insides shriveled. _Great job. Fucking strangled a person who can’t even talk._ Shion’s gray tunic had been switched for green, and he wore no make up today. _How did he even get in here?_

     But then Nezumi remembered he had been so frustrated when he came home from the bakery, he had retreated to his room and spent the rest of the day simmering. He did not remember locking the door like he usually did.

     Nezumi waffled between annoyance and concern as he watched Shion rub his neck.

     “What are you doing in here?” Nezumi demanded, deciding to go with the more familiar option.

     Shion pointed to the clock and then to the bedside table where a steaming plate of breakfast rested. He had overslept. Kal and Rico must already be in their second day of training. Nezumi chewed his bottom lip.

     Shion coughed and Nezumi frowned at him. “Look, I didn’t mean… Just don’t sneak up on me like that again. All right?”

     Shion waved a hand and slid the notepad and pen from the bedside table.

 _It’s okay. I have nightmares too,_ he wrote.

     Nezumi scowled. “That’s great. Now get out.”

     Shion’s face crumpled and Nezumi felt instantly awful. He never realized how many imperatives he used until this moment. “Just...” Nezumi fumbled. “Would you please leave?”

     Shion hung his head, placed the notepad on the bedspread, and rose. Nezumi watched him shuffle halfway across the room before he couldn’t stand it.

     “Why do you always do that?” he growled at Shion’s back.

     Shion stopped and turned to him.

     “Why are you always sharing stupid things like that? That’s what got you into this mess. Haven’t you learned your lesson already?”

     Shion’s brow furrowed. He crossed back to the bed and picked up the pen and paper again. He wrote a sentence, but paused to stare down at the page a few seconds before continuing in an impatient scrawl.

_I don’t regret what happened at the Banquet. I meant what I said, and I think it needed to be said. I’ve been waiting a long time to tell someone that. That’s part of why I talk to you._

_The other part is I see what you’re doing, and it won’t work. Things don’t get better if you hold it in, and the Games don’t stop if you pretend they have nothing to do with you. Maybe you’re not ready to talk, but if you want to, I’m here. It sounds really cheesy, but I mean it. You don’t have to be alone, Nezumi._

     Nezumi read the words and frowned. Shion’s face reflected a similar gravity, and a thought came unbidden to Nezumi’s mind: that Shion had smiled a lot when they first met, that he had been silly and young and idealistic. The sobriety on his face now made Nezumi’s attempt at anger fizzle.

     Nezumi crossed his arms. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

     Shion shrugged as though he knew this would be his answer, and Nezumi’s irritation spiked again. He didn’t like that he was apparently so predictable when he couldn’t seem to figure Shion out.

     Nezumi huffed and looked toward the door. “Can you knock next time you come in? I don’t like people walking into my room unannounced.”

     Shion raised his eyebrows as if to say “obviously.” This spark of sass lessened the cramp of discomfort in Nezumi’s stomach; sass he knew how to deal with. Shion was changed, but he wasn’t crushed, and that meant Nezumi didn’t have to treat him with kid gloves.

     “I need to get dressed,” Nezumi said, hoping Shion would catch on.

     Shion once again headed for the door.

     “Thanks,” Nezumi mumbled. Shion paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked somehow expectant, and Nezumi finished gruffly, “For bringing the tray.”

     Shion’s mouth twisted in apparent disappointment, but he nodded and left the room. Nezumi watched the closed door, feeling inexplicably dazed.

\----

     Only Rou was present in the living room when Nezumi came down with his empty breakfast tray.

     “Good morning,” Rou greeted in his soft voice.

     “Morning.” Nezumi hovered just beside the TV. “Where’s Gran?”

     “She’s discussing interview strategies with Gregor. This year’s tributes are a little harder to pin down than you were.”

     Nezumi sniffed. “They’re definitely rough. But not completely hopeless…”

     Rou smiled. “By the way, is that cake on the dining room table yours? I had to keep Rico from eating it this morning.”

     Nezumi opened his mouth to say anyone could have it, but stopped himself. He frowned at the bubby yellow “Karan” written on the side and crossed the room to trade his empty tray for the cake box. He placed the cake on the coffee table and fell into the armchair across from Rou.

     “That kid needs to slow down,” Nezumi said. “At this rate he’ll die of disappointment in the arena.”

     “I’d like to think he’s just stocking up while he can. Rico’s stronger than he looks, and he’s no stranger to foraging.”

     True enough. Virtually all the districts were used to subsisting on crumbs.

     “Nezumi, I wanted to speak to you,” Rou said, an edge of caution slipping into his voice. “This is your first Game since your victory. It can be hard for some…”

     Nezumi sighed. “Let me guess. This is the part where you say, ‘If you need to talk to someone, I’m here for you.’ Am I right? Geez, must have been something in the juice this morning…”

     Rou sat up straighter and folded his hands in his lap. “I know you don’t like to leave yourself open to other people, Nezumi. I understand that—I also prefer to keep to myself. But Gran and I want you to know that however you’re feeling, that it’s perfectly normal. If you need advice, all you need to do is ask.” Rou paused a moment. His face grew taut and Nezumi felt a trickle of foreboding slip down his neck. “Has anyone contacted you?” Rou said at last.

     “What do you mean?” Nezumi kept his voice devoid of emotion. The question could mean any number of things.

     “Anyone from the Capitol, for example. No one has, right?”

     Nezumi swallowed, but covered it with shrug. “No. Why?”

     The ominous look on Rou’s face softened a little. He nodded. “I see. Good. Well, if you have nothing to say…? Alright, we can leave it at that.”

     Nezumi settled back in his chair, his mind replaying the conversation for clues as to its meaning. Had Rou heard something about his talks with Shion? Or with Safu and Karan? Or was he alluding to something Nezumi didn’t yet know about?

     “Ah.” Rou cleared his throat. “Also, Kal has requested your help with their interview.”

     Nezumi’s eyebrows shot up. “They what?”

     “Kal mentioned it at breakfast, and Gran and I think it’s a good idea; you know them best after all. Please think about it and let Kal know at dinner.” Rou pushed up from his seat and checked his watch. “I have to meet Gran and Gregor for a lunch with potential sponsors now. Would you like to come?”

     Nezumi shook his head. His mind still reeled from Kal’s request and whatever danger Rou had implied may come his way. He was in no condition to entertain.

     Rou sighed. “People have noticed your absence, Nezumi. I’m sorry to pressure you like this, but we need your help… Even if you don’t want to go yourself, please think about Kal and Rico. They need those sponsors...”

     Nezumi kept himself very still as Rou stared him down. Then Rou sighed again, heavier and sadder than before, and left. Nezumi slumped in his chair.

_What now?_

     Mentor protocol said he should be socializing, strategizing, or spying, but he didn’t want to do any of that. He didn’t want to stay holed up in the training center either though…

     A young blonde server came out of the kitchen and pulled up short when she saw Nezumi. Her face did a quick flip through surprise and confusion before landing on curious. She shifted back and forth on her feet for a second and then turned and left the room. Nezumi wondered if she knew Shion, if the Avoxes and other servants interacted and gossiped like everyone else in the Capitol.

 _Probably. They’re human too._ But how many of them still held rebellion in their hearts despite the punishment? How many could say they didn’t regret their choice?

     The blonde woman came back with a knife and Nezumi sat up. She gestured to the cake, making a cutting motion with her hand.

     “Oh…” Nezumi shrugged.

     The woman made quick work of slicing the cake into eight congruent pieces. He was actually a little impressed with how precise her cuts were. She went back into the kitchen to retrieve a plate, fork, and napkin, and laid them out in front of him. Nezumi muttered a thank you and she flashed him a shy smile before scurrying off.

     Nezumi scooted to the edge of the chair and carved a piece of cake out of one of the slices. It was delicious. The cake was soft and airy and the cherry and almond toppings were at perfect odds with each other; the cherry provided pops of fruity zest while the almond soothed the flavor and added texture. It just might have been the best cake he had eaten in the Capitol. At the very least it was the most artful.

     Nezumi pulled the slice out and onto his plate. In the empty space in the bundt, Nezumi noticed a white blotch sticking out of one of the adjacent slices. He plucked it out of the cake and found that it was a folded slip of paper. Nezumi opened it.

_I miss you. I love you. Stay safe. –K_

     A tingle of melancholy budded in his chest as he read the words. Karan was a bolder woman than he thought. He could only imagine what would have happened if Rico had eaten the cake earlier, or if he had left it as a free for all.

     Nezumi held the small slip gingerly by the edge, careful not to smudge the writing. _Seems like Shion takes after his mama…_ He swallowed the lump that threatened to form in his throat. _I should probably get this to him…_

     Nezumi rose from his seat, stood a moment, and dropped back down again. He stared at the note, tracing the words with his eyes a second time, and a third time.

     Shion must miss his mother. He deserved to have this note, and Karan trusted him to deliver it for her. But… If he gave the note to Shion would that be helping or hurting him? Shion had been torn from his family and maimed by the Capitol, but he had had a year for the pain to dull. Shion didn’t seem well exactly, but he at least had made peace with his lot.

     If Nezumi gave him this note, wouldn’t that be tearing the wound open again?

 _This isn’t your decision to make_ , Nezumi told himself.

     But the minutes dragged as he stared at the words. _I miss you. I love you. Stay safe._

     Nezumi carefully folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.


	7. Reference

     Although he looked ill, Rico managed to take a seat in front of the television along with everyone else. Kal couldn’t manage it. They lurked on the threshold between the living room and dining room, as though there was an invisible barrier. Nezumi glanced back at them from time to time while the announcers prepped the audience with bad jokes. Kal didn’t notice him watching; their eyes were fixed on the television.

     The announcers prattled on about useless fluff for another few minutes and then finally beamed at the screen and started the scoring. One by one the tributes’ faces appeared with their scores beneath. The Careers gained high numbers, to no one’s surprise, and Districts 3, 4, and 5 received middling scores of fives and sixes. Nezumi narrowed his eyes as the male and female tributes from District 6 received a pair of sevens. He had a sense about them during the parade, but this confirmation didn’t make him feel very good.

     Rico swallowed audibly as his picture appeared onscreen. He had curled himself into a knot in his armchair, and when he saw the four appear beneath his name, he doubled over and buried his face between his legs. Nezumi fisted his hands in his lap, but he kept his gaze on the screen as Kal’s picture came up.

     Five.

     Nezumi felt a part of him sputter. He had unwittingly kindled a hope for Rico and Kal’s scores, but that hope died the same moment he realized its existence. Nezumi twisted around in his chair. Kal’s eyes shone, but their mouth was warped into the most hateful sneer he had ever seen.

     Nezumi caught a wisp of white in the room behind Kal. Shion hovered just outside the kitchen door, apparently sneaking a viewing. The look on his face reflected how Nezumi felt inside. He cast a pitying look at Kal and ducked back into the kitchens, without noticing Nezumi’s gaze.

     The rest of the scores went by without any more surprises. The girl from 10, who Nezumi had previously picked out as a possible threat, received a six, which was decent, although not an overwhelming upset. But then again it could be a strategy. Scores were not always a reliable predictor of success; some tributes were willing to trade early sponsor interest for the element of surprise later.

     The program ended. The room was quiet, save for the sound of Gregor nibbling on the edge of his thumbnail. The escort dropped his hand the moment he realized the habit was starkly audible.

     “Yes, well.” Gregor cleared his throat. “Scoring is… not everything. The interviews are much more important.” He smiled as he shakily regained his momentum. “Yes, the interviews. Who cares about the scores. Your stylists will make you look fabulous, and your mentors will teach you how to be loveable, and then the sponsors will flock to you. Have faith!” He clapped his hands once and shot to his feet. “I’ll have the kitchen make you some snacks.”

     Gregor darted from the room, brushing by Kal who still had not moved or said anything. They still wore the sneer, and Rico was still curled into a ball of shame and misery in the armchair next to Nezumi.

     Nezumi sighed and stood. “Gran, Rou, take care of Rico. I’ve got Kal.”

     His fellow mentors perked up, and Nezumi did his best to act nonchalant. His announcement woke Kal from their feral stupor. They watched his movements with the rigidity of a cornered animal, but Nezumi walked around the couch and turned in the opposite direction from them without a glance.

     “Come along, Kal, if you want help with your interview,” he called once he entered the hallway. He snuck a look back after a few more paces and was satisfied to see Kal following with a begrudging expression.

     He walked past the bedrooms and decided to settle in the sunroom at the back of the floor. He took the farthest chair and surveyed Kal. Rain pecked at the windowpanes, providing a gentle background to the relative silence in the room. Kal crouched in the chair across from him. They looked like they wanted to be mad, but it just read as queasy.

     Nezumi crossed his legs and lazed back into the cushions. “So. A five.” Kal’s face soured, but Nezumi held up a hand. “That’s not a death sentence, Kal. Gran and Rou wanted me to score a five last year.”

     “Yeah, but you scored a seven.”

     Nezumi shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Scores don’t mean everything. If we find the right persona for your interview, we can keep them guessing. What kind of strategy do you want to try?”

     Kal wrapped their arms around their knees and looked away. “I don’t know,” they mumbled. “Whatever you think.”

     “Flirty?”

     Kal’s head snapped forward so fast it cracked.

     Nezumi smirked. “I’m kidding.”

     “Not funny,” Kal growled.

     He studied Kal. Their hair had been cut and groomed so that it fell in glossy waves just past their shoulders. They looked much better without the matted mess they sported in 7, and now that the dirt had been scrubbed off, he saw that their tan skin was actually in fair condition.

_The androgyny might work in Kal’s favor…_

     Looks didn’t matter much unless you fell to either extreme, though. The deciding factor was your presentation: your outfit, your answers, and your personality. Your fake personality, in most cases.

     Nezumi tilted his head. “You could probably pull off shy, but that’s forgettable… Try being cocky. You’ve got a mouth on you, so you might make a believable performance.”

     “Cocky?” Kal gnawed their lip.

     “I’ll ask you questions and you give me your best attempt at cockiness. Ready? So, Kal, Nezumi Singer surprised us all with his win last year—do you think you have what it takes to follow in his footsteps?”

     Kal narrowed their eyes. “You would make this about yourself.”

     “Stop deflecting and answer the question.”

     “Uh…” Kal wriggled in their seat.

     “Arrogant, Kal.”

     “Y-yes. Yes, I have what it takes.”

     “That was awful. I said arrogant not arid. Try again. What do you think of your competition this year?”

     “They suck.”

     Nezumi’s brow creased. “…Betterish. Moving on. You scored a five, but you think your competition sucks? Do you have a secret we don’t know about?”

     Kal clamped their mouth shut.

     “Well?”

     “…No.”

     “Kal.”

     “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.”

     “Make something up. Come on, it’s not that hard.”

     “Maybe for you!” Kal threw their arms up. “I’m not good at stuff like this, okay? I don’t… I can’t talk like you do! I just can’t!”

     Nezumi scowled. “I thought you wanted my help. We’ve barely even started and you’re giving up?”

     “No, I just…”

     “What?”

     “I just don’t see the point.” Kal clenched their hands. “It’s like you said, I got a five. You say it’s not the worst thing, but when was the last time someone with a five won, huh?” Kal glared at him, but lost their courage in the face of the answer and turned toward the wall. “What’s the point?”

     “The point is to stay alive.”

     “I know,” Kal groaned. They ducked their head and fisted their hands in their hair. “But I’m not smart, and I’m not strong, so…” Kal’s voice wobbled and trailed off.

     Nezumi shifted in his chair. The all too familiar weight settled in his chest. He was becoming accustomed to this pressure; it used to terrify and confuse him, but now he faced its surfacing with resignation.

     “I don’t want to die,” Kal said in a small voice.

     The pressure in Nezumi’s chest grew to a chasm. He knew exactly how Kal felt. He could see shadows of himself in their fear, and Kal’s words echoed the thoughts that dogged him throughout his Games. But these were thoughts and fears that could only be admitted in silence, or in the company of trusted individuals. If he allowed Kal to be eaten up with self-doubt now, the battle was over before it began.

     “You’re being ridiculous. At this rate, you _will_ die. And it will be all your fault.”

     Kal lifted their head. Their eyes were wet with tears they were barely holding back, but the look on their face was pure hatred.

     “Why are you such an asshole!” They snatched an ornamental piece of glassware from the table and chucked it at Nezumi.

     Nezumi dodged it, and it exploded on the floor behind his chair. Nezumi shook his head at them, which made Kal angrier.

     “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, but you’re a fucking joke!” They grabbed another piece of glassware, a smaller piece, but they wielded it over their head like a deadly weapon. “So you won your stupid Game! Big deal! It doesn't matter, because I’m going to kill you now!”

     “Good,” Nezumi said with a smile.

     Kal froze mid-throw and blinked at him. “What?”

     “That’s your angle, Kal. Your I-don’t-give-a-shit-and-I-don’t-take-it-either attitude. Use that when you’re interviewing. When you’re talking to Verde, just pretend you’re talking to me—but edit out the curse words. Gregor’s correct; the Capitol is squeamish.”

     Kal continued to stare at him like they expected a trick, but after a few minutes of silence, Kal lowered their arm and placed the piece of glass in their lap. “So…” They frowned. “You mean… just be myself.”

     “Yeah, sure. But your angry self, not the one that was throwing a pity party a second ago.”

     “I can still throw this at you,” Kal warned, nodding at the glass. “I missed on purpose last time.”

     Nezumi smirked. “You’re already doing better.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Now, tell me, Kal, what do you think of the Capitol?” Nezumi said in a perfect imitation of Verde Ricci’s fluttery accent. “It’s positively stupendous, isn’t it?”

     Kal cracked a smile, but quickly tried to stifle it. “Uh…”

     Nezumi arched an eyebrow and Kal cleared their throat and sat up straighter.

     “Yeah, I guess. Anything’s better than 7,” they said.

     Nezumi nodded. “Good.” 

\----

     After he and Kal finished with the interview prep, Nezumi hurried to catch Rou and Gran before they left for their last lunch with potential sponsors. They looked surprised but pleased when Nezumi said he would be joining them.

     They set off toward the Capitol city central, and Gran led them into a swanky building where they had to take an elevator to reach the restaurant. The color palette inside was a combination of gold, pinks, and light blues, and the air smelled faintly of rose water. There were only a few occupied tables, and a table of four—two men and two women—in the back perked up and waved them over.

     Nezumi instantly regretted being such a hermit. All four of the Capitol citizens were grinning at him as he, Rou, and Gran approached, and he had no doubt that they would descend on him the moment he sat.

     “Nezumi!” barked one of the men, a chubby fellow with a shock of bright orange hair and a matching complexion. “Where have you been? We’ve missed you.”

     The women laughed, and one of them shushed him. “Come now, Adolphus. He was probably busy. This is his first Games as a victor after all.”

     Adolphus harrumphed, and the woman smiled at Nezumi. Her hair was the exact hue and shape as an upended peach.

     “Although I hope you’ll make time for us little people when you’re done playing with whoever you’ve been with these last few days,” the woman finished with a flutter of her eyelashes.

     Nezumi smiled back and took a seat next to Adolphus. “I apologize for my absence. The last thing I want is for you to feel neglected.” His smile panned the table, and even Adolphus softened a few degrees under its influence.

     Gran and Rou exchanged a look and sat in the two remaining chairs.

     The peach-haired woman offered her hand, and held it there until Nezumi realized she want him to kiss it. He did so with a genial face but revulsion in his heart.

     “I’m Mimi,” the hateful woman said. “This here is my very good friend, Gweny.”

     “Guinevere,” the other woman cut in, a brilliant blush spreading over her ice pale skin. What this woman’s dark hair lacked in brilliance it made up for in height and complexity.

     “Oh,” Mimi giggled. “Yes, right! Sorry, Gweny.”

     Guinevere sank in her chair and stared at the table in stormy silence as Mimi introduced the last member of the Capitol party, the massive and mustached Richard.

     Thereafter followed an obscenely long luncheon wherein Mimi, and occasionally the less socially adept “Gweny,” made pass after pass at Nezumi, who graciously deflected and brought the conversation back to Kal and Rico’s sponsorship. Rou and Gran interjected where needed, but it was obvious to all the District 7 mentors that Nezumi’s success with flattering and flirting would be the determining factor.

     “Now, you know I’m a big fan of yours, Nezumi,” Adolphus said, dabbing his mouth with the cloth napkin. He shoved his decimated plate away and patted his stomach as if consoling it. “And, of course, I have the highest respect for District 7’s other victors. However, these new children… Well, I don’t mean to be harsh, but do they... You know. Do they have what it takes?”

     “Adolphus,” Nezumi said, leaning ever so slightly toward the man, “would I be here if they didn’t? I know better than to waste your time; I hope you’ll do me the same favor.”

     Adolphus made a very serious effort to keep his face neutral, but Nezumi noticed his eyes flit over the square of exposed skin near his neck. Nezumi stifled a herculean sigh and rested his chin on his knuckle, tilting his head at an angle that made his collarbone more prominent. Adolphus’ Adams apple bobbed.

     “Yes,” the man agreed gruffly. “Right then,” he added in a mumble, looking everywhere but at Nezumi.

     Nezumi smiled sweetly. Adolphus was the hardest sell, and that seemed taken care of now. The other man… Nezumi didn’t know what to make of him. He barely spoke a word except to interject a raunchy joke at the women’s expense and he didn't seem to be anyone’s particular friend. He didn’t have the obscenely rich air about him that the others wore either, and never looked invested when Kal and Rico were brought up. It seemed like he attended this lunch purely for fun. Nezumi didn’t waste his energy on him.

     Nezumi turned toward the women. They required zero work to seduce. He had no idea if they actually planned to sponsor, or if they were just sticking around because they liked to stare at him. It pissed him off, but he continued to smile and elude until, finally, Adolphus announced he’d better be getting back. Mimi and Guinevere were put out, but they rose from the table as gracefully as they could in their flouncy outfits and while balancing their elaborate hairstyles.

     Nezumi’s cheeks and head hurt from being pleasant all afternoon, but he said all the pretty goodbyes that his Capitol companions expected and earnestly reminded them that he needed them as much as Kal and Rico did.

     Rou clapped him on the shoulder after the room cleared out. “You did a good job, Nezumi. Thank you.”

     “You were absolutely shameless,” Gran said.

     “That’s what they want,” Nezumi snapped back.

     Gran eyed him. “It was meant to be a compliment.” Nezumi blinked at her. Gran shrugged. “Someone has to do it, even if it makes my skin crawl…”

     Gran headed for the door, and Nezumi and Rou followed. They drew to a stop, though, when they noticed Richard hovering just outside. He smiled apologetically.

     “Hello,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I was hoping to grab a few minutes with you alone, Nezumi. Do you have some time?”

     Rou and Gran glanced at Nezumi, silently asking if he needed them to intervene. Nezumi felt a rush of appreciation for his fellow mentors. He was exhausted and it probably showed, but…

_For Kal and Rico._

     He forced himself to smile at them and then Richard. “Sure. I have a few minutes to spare. You guys go ahead, I’ll meet you back at the Training Center.”

     Gran and Rou left, although with wary and confused looks, respectively. Richard watched them go and then turned on Nezumi with an exuberance that made him want to curl up and hide.

     “Sorry about calling you out like this. I couldn’t really say much in there, since, you know, this kind of thing should stay strictly between you and me. Great to meet you, Nezumi. You’re even more beautiful in the flesh.”

     Nezumi’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered. “Thank you. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

     “Ah, right.” Richard reached into his front jacket pocket and pulled out a small card embossed with red script. Nezumi took it from him and read the words on the front:

_Richard Rivus_

_Procurement Agent_

     The Capitol seal was printed beneath and Nezumi’s heart jumped at the sight of it. This did not seem like a sponsor conversation.

     “My number’s not on there, for confidentiality reasons. You know, in case you lose it somewhere. I don’t want people calling me up and begging to be put on the list. It’s happened before, if you can believe it. Not pretty.” The man playacted a shiver. “Oh, and I know the card says Richard, but that’s just for the clients. You can call me Ricky.” His mustache bobbed as he grinned.

     Nezumi looked up from the card and gave the man the once over. “How about Dick?”

     Ricky laughed heartily. “You don’t miss a beat! Good for you! A pretty face plus wit is a killer combo. I can already tell we’re going to make a great team.”

     “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

     Ricky paused and then his face broke into a look of realization. “Oh! Geez. Right, of course you don’t. It’s a good thing you don’t, actually—that means no one has gotten greedy. If anyone approaches you, anyone from the Capitol, let me know immediately. I’ll give you my number later. But, right, you’re not old enough, are you? When’s your birthday? November?”

     Nezumi stared blankly at Ricky, and the man pushed on with an indulgent smile.

     “I’ll explain everything in detail once you’re of age. In the meantime, hang tight. And maybe keep a mental list of anyone in the Capitol that you’re interested in. I’ve already set some groundwork with a few, but I’ll take your preferences into consideration.”

     Nezumi felt an abyss opening up beneath his feet, wider and wider, with every word this man spoke. A wave of disgust and anxiety began to creep at the corners of his mind, and he had to clench his jaw to the point of pain in order to convince himself that this was not a nightmare.

     Nezumi shoved the card into Ricky’s chest. “I’m not interested.”

     Ricky looked shocked at the sharpness in Nezumi’s voice. He frowned and stooped to pick the card up from the ground where it had fallen. Ricky met Nezumi’s caustic gaze and sighed.

     “Look, kid. I get it. But don't shoot the messenger. These kinds of things… Well, it’s not something you can say no to easily. They have ways…” Ricky smoothed out the card’s crinkled surface and held it out to Nezumi. “I’m not a bad guy, and I promise, I’m good at my job. I’ll make sure you’re treated right. So, what do you say?”

     Nezumi did not take the card. He didn’t even look at it. He glared at Ricky until the man adjusted his tie and cleared his throat.

     Ricky slipped the card back into his jacket pocket. “Well… It was nice meeting you, Nezumi. Even though the feeling does not seem mutual.” Ricky gave him a quick, light tap on the shoulder and retreated. “I’ll be in touch.”


	8. Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I take so long... .-. But unfortunately that will not change. I'm consistently unreliable these days.

     Nezumi had goose bumps all the way back to the Training Center. He had heard jokes about the Capitol citizens and the victors, about what they got up to. Everyone joked about the Capitol’s fanaticism, but Nezumi never imagined…

     He felt cold and dirty, and by the time he had stumbled into the elevator and shot toward floor seven, he felt like he might scream or throw up or punch someone in the face. Why did this have to be his life?

_Haven’t we suffered enough?_

     Nezumi slammed his fist against the elevator door and grit his teeth against the pain.

     They would not have him. The Capitol may have its ways, as Ricky so delicately put it, but Nezumi had an idea of what those ways were, and they couldn’t touch him. He had no one else to lose and nothing left to give. What little was left of him after the Games was his. He would kill again before they took more from him.

     The elevator doors slid open silently and Nezumi stalked through the living room. He didn’t want to see anyone, especially not Rou or Gran. He knew now why Rou had been questioning him the other morning, and it made Nezumi sick to think about his mentors in his position.

     Nezumi crept into his room and locked the door. He flinched when he saw his reflection in the mirror over the bed and cursed at himself for being so weak.

 _Get a hold of yourself. It’s not going to happen to you._ Nezumi drew in a breath through his nose, counted backwards from ten, and released it. _They will not break you_.

     He crossed the room and tugged off his clothes, ignoring the urge to get into the shower and scrub himself raw. Slowly, calmly, he pulled on a pair of clean pants and a loose fitting shirt. He felt better after that. Things seemed a little more manageable in this dark room with the sight and sounds of that stupid holographic forest playing around him.

     There was a knock at the door. Nezumi stiffened. He eyed the handle, waiting for it to jiggle as the person tried it, but it remained still and the knock didn’t come again, despite the seconds. A small white slip slid under the door. Nezumi padded across the room and peered at it. It was a napkin, and it said:

_Would you like some tea?_

     Nezumi frowned at the interrogative. “Ridiculous,” he grumbled to himself and unlocked the door.

     Shion’s big brown eyes blinked at him when he cracked it open. Nezumi leered at him, but he did, in fact, have tea, and the scent of fresh mint wafted from the mug. Nezumi stepped back and waved Shion forward.

     Shion placed the tea gently on the bedside table and took up the pen and paper instead.

     “Really making yourself at home, aren't you?” Nezumi said blandly.

     Shion wrote. _I can try to find my own paper and pen if it bothers you._

     “I don’t care. Do what you want.”

     Shion tilted his head at him. Everything in his face asked, “Are you alright?” and Nezumi answered automatically.

     “I’m fine. Capitol people put me in a bad mood.”

     Shion’s eyebrows drew together in understanding. He pressed his lips tight and wrote on the notepad.

_I can try to cheer you up, if you want._

     Nezumi sniffed at him. “You can _try_ , but honestly I don’t know remember what it’s like to not feel pissed.” He took the tea off the table sat on the edge of the bed to sip it. It tasted deliciously bright, and the warmth did help lighten his mood a bit. Nezumi motioned for Shion to proceed. “Well? Go on. Write me something heartwarming.”

     Shion pouted. He glanced around room and appeared to be inspired by something he saw. Nezumi furrowed his brow as Shion walked across the room and stood next to the wall. He shot a shy smile at Nezumi and rapped on the wall twice.

     Nezumi stared blankly at him. Shion rapped on the wall a second time, slower and more deliberate.

_Knock, knock._

     Nezumi’s expression darkened. “Are you serious?”

     Shion huffed and crossed his arms.

     “…Fine. Who’s there?”

     Shion pointed up and to his left.

     “Television who?”

     Shion shook his head and pointed again.

     “Screen? Speaker?”

     Shion snapped his fingers and nodded. The shy smile made a reappearance, and he gestured for Nezumi to continue the formula.

     “Speaker who?”

     Shion made an X with his arms and then pointed to himself. Nezumi’s mouth sagged at the corners, but for some reason Shion was smiling like he had managed the pinnacle of comedy.

     That’s _supposed to cheer me up? What kind of weirdo makes a joke about being an Avox?_

     It was morbid and absurd, but Nezumi supposed that it was a sort of accomplishment for Shion. He had managed to tell a joke when he physically couldn’t “tell” anyone anything anymore.

     And suddenly Nezumi’s mouth quirked into a smirk. He remembered that at the Victor’s Ball the President had used an Avox to illustrate his point by challenging the man to tell a joke. If only Fox had asked Shion, his metaphor would have went up in flames.

     Shion looked very pleased with himself when he saw Nezumi break into a smile, and even though Shion’s sad, self-demeaning joke wasn’t really the reason he was smiling, Nezumi didn’t tell him so.

     “You’re crazy, you know that?” Nezumi said to him.

     Shion shrugged a shoulder and came back to his side. He deliberated for a moment and then plopped down on the bed a few hand spans away from Nezumi.

 _Feeling better?_ Shion wrote.

     “If I am, it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with the tea.”

_Stingy. And might I remind you the tea was all me._

     Nezumi chuckled. “Honestly, I still don’t understand why you bother. But I won’t go down that rabbit hole again.” Nezumi took another hearty sip of the tea, enjoying the warmth of it sliding down his throat. He placed the mug aside and leaned back on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. He felt sleepy all of a sudden.

_All that socializing…_

     A pang of discomfort shot through his chest as the afternoon washed over him again. Nezumi sat up and swallowed. He grabbed the tea and forced a searing mouthful down.

     The sound of pen scratching on paper met his ears and Nezumi turned to watch Shion write, if only to have something to distract his eyes while his thoughts ran amuck. Shion’s brow was creased, his mouth taut, his fingers white where they gripped the pen. His hand flew across the paper, but every once in a while his jaw would clench and he would backtrack to slash an errant or misspelled word out and start again. Shion’s thoughts and feelings seemed to run swifter than his hand had speed to pen them. He looked pained. Nezumi could feel the frustration rolling off him like heat.

     The memories of the afternoon faded from Nezumi’s mind as he watched Shion struggle through the first page of the pad and flip it over to write on the next. The disgust he felt at his predicament gave way to pity for Shion’s. He had barely known Shion when he was whole, but he remembered the earnestness with which Shion spoke to him, so desperate to get his meaning across that he fumbled through his sentences like a blushing schoolboy. And now he was reduced to scribbling his passions, relegated to long silences he raced to fill with ink.

     Nezumi felt suddenly hot. Ashamed. Ricky’s threats still dangled over his head like a guillotine, but for Shion the blade had already fallen.

     Shion tugged at his bangs and sighed. He dropped the pen and held the paper out. Nezumi glanced down at the cramped writing, catching a snatch of an apology, a hesitation, a gentle reminder of solidarity. Nezumi placed a hand on the notepad and pushed it down to the space between them on the bed.

     Shion’s brows drew together. He stared at the notepad sandwiched between their hands.

     “I have something for you,” Nezumi said quietly. Shion’s eyes flashed in surprise as Nezumi rose. “Stay here, would you?”

     He barely remembered to tack on the question. But then he probably didn’t have to; Avoxes were subject to other’s commands, but it wasn’t like they were physically compelled to obey, and they both knew by now that Nezumi’s words were not orders.

     Nezumi left the room and passed down the hallway into the kitchen. He returned to find Shion unmoved. His hand was still exactly where he’d left it on the bed, beneath the notepad.

     Shion’s eyes dropped from Nezumi’s face to the box in his hands. He drew in a sharp breath and Nezumi knew he had recognized the bubbly yellow writing. Shion trembled as Nezumi approached and placed the cake on the bedside table.

     “I…” The word came out crackly and Nezumi cleared his throat and started again. “Your mama… She gave this to me. She said to share it, so…” He gestured at the cake and then tucked his arms over his chest. “It’s yours.”

     Shion brushed his fingers against the edge of the box. He slid the cherry cake out—apart from the one missing piece it was untouched. Shion stared down at the cake and gradually his eyes filled with tears. Nezumi’s heart dropped.

 _Crap._ Nezumi’s eyes flitted from the cake to the stream of tears streaking Shion’s cheeks. Karan may have given him the cake to share, but Nezumi had forgotten that to Shion it was beyond his capability to enjoy. _How could I be so stupid?_

     The thought echoed back to him twofold when he realized Shion was not crying because of the cake, but for the memory of his mother.

     Nezumi carefully stepped around Shion and retrieved the note from the bedside table drawer. Shion took the slip of paper from him with shaking hands. His tears ran faster and thicker as he read the words. A low whimper escaped Shion’s throat, and Nezumi’s chest constricted at the sound. He had spent so many silent days with Shion he had forgotten that he was not actually mute.

     Shion cradled the note in his hands and sobbed and Nezumi stood there. He felt awful and awkward and ill equipped. He had never been good at comforting people—he couldn’t even comfort himself—and this seemed like a private grief that he should let play out.

     Nezumi went back to the door and locked it.

     None too soon.

     Something crashed into door. The handle jiggled furiously, and from the other side, Kal snarled.

     “Nezumi! Open up. You need to help me!”

     Shion’s sobs choked off to a sniffle. Nezumi shot a disconcerted look at him. The other teen swiped at his wet face and scrubbed his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. He still looked like a miserable blotchy mess, but there was nothing to do for it. Shion slipped the note into his pocket and sluggishly collected the notepad, pen, and cake to his chest. Then he stood in middle of the room and stared at Nezumi with resignation.

     “Nezumi! Come on, this is serious.” Kal banged on the door again. “Please open up.”

     Nezumi’s brows shot up. If Kal said please then it must be serious.

     “Kal,” another voice whined. It was Gregor’s. “Kal, please be reasonable.”

     “No! I’m not wearing that thing! _You_ _can't make me_. Nezumi!” The door rattled and Nezumi was certain it was from a kick.

     Nezumi bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t very well open the door and let everyone see him alone with Shion, especially with the state he was in. And he didn’t think Shion would be too pleased to be caught in this moment of vulnerability.

     “Over here,” Nezumi whispered and waved Shion over to the bathroom. “Stay in here. I’ll get everyone to leave and then you can sneak out.”

     Shion stood on the tiled floor of the bathroom, looking sad and strange with his bounty of cake and paper. He placed the contents of his arms on the counter and nodded at Nezumi. Nezumi nodded back and turned to leave, but a tug on the hem of his shirt made him pause. Shion tilted his head at the cake and twitched his mouth into a two-second smile.

     “It’s nothing,” Nezumi mumbled.

     Another fight between Gregor and Kal broke out on the other side of the door and the moment jolted apart. Nezumi scowled and closed the bathroom door on Shion.

     “What?” Nezumi demanded, wrenching his bedroom door open.

     Kal’s eyes flashed. Before he could blink, they darted into his room and hid behind him.

     The escort looked harried. “Nezumi, please talk some sense into that child. She’s being completely unreasonable.”

     Kal bared their teeth at Gregor from Nezumi’s shadow. Nezumi felt completely lost.

     “Alright, what the hell is going on?” He turned to Kal for the explanation.

     Kal jabbed a finger in Gregor’s direction. “He and those stupid stylists are trying to put me in a dress. I’m _not_ wearing a dress! I don’t wear dresses. I told them over and over again, but no one will listen to me!”

 _Is that it?_ Kal was breaking down his door for this? But Kal was gripping his shirt hard enough to wrinkle and their eyes were wild with pleading.

     “Where are the stylists?” Nezumi asked Gregor.

     “In the sunroom.”

     “Alright. I’ll handle this.”

     Gregor’s face flushed in triumph. “Oh, thank goodness. This way.” The escort scurried down the hall.

     “Come on, Kal.” Nezumi moved out into the hallway, but Kal didn’t follow. Their face was ashen and puckered. “Ah geez,” Nezumi muttered. “Don’t you dare cry. I’ve seen enough crying today. I said I’d handle it, didn’t I? You’re the one that barged down my door screaming for help.”

     Kal’s face scrunched in distrust, but they slunk out into the hall. Nezumi thought he heard the muted click of the bathroom door opening behind him. He left the bedroom door ajar and walked to the sunroom.

     His eyes were drawn immediately to the bright yellow dress on the mannequin in the middle of the room. It was exquisitely tailored with lace trim at the collar and hem and delicate girlish ruffles on the skirt. It was adorable, but it wasn’t Kal.

     The stylist and prep team stood around the dress, looking scandalized and angry. One of the attendants was cradling his hand as a medic wrapped it in gauze. The attendant and medic glared as Kal came into the room.

     “Nezumi, thank goodness you’re here.” One of the women surged forward. Nezumi recognized her as Kal’s appointed stylist. Mellia, or Melody, or something like that. The woman pointed at Kal. “We’re _trying_ to prepare Kal, but she’s acting like a rabid animal. She bit Minos!”

     Nezumi guessed Minos was the attendant with the bleeding hand. He shot a look of disapproval at Kal, but the youth only shrugged and glared back at their hostile entourage.

     “I’m sorry about that,” Nezumi said to the stylist. “I heard you want them to wear a dress to the interview? Is that it?”

     The stylist smiled and approached the yellow dress. “Isn’t it darling? Kal is _certain_ to win sponsors with this. It’s perfect for her dark skin tone and will make her shine like a star on that stage… But she won’t even try it on!” The stylist pouted. The rest of the prep team bunched around her in sympathy. “Would you please tell Kal to do as we say, Nezumi?”

     Nezumi circled the dress, feeling the fabric between his fingers and frowning thoughtfully. The team watched with baited breath when at last Nezumi paused and turned back to the stylist.

     “This is a beautiful dress,” he said, and the prep team bent toward him like eager flowers. Kal, however, shriveled and backed toward the door. “But,” Nezumi continued, and then left the word hanging in the air like a sigh.

     Kal paused in their escape. The prep team’s faces froze in various stages of confusion.

     Nezumi pressed a hand to his mouth and stared at the dress, dismayed. He dropped his hand and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, this doesn’t fit the image we created for Kal at all. Kal is supposed to be rough but charming, but this… No one is going to see Kal as a serious contender in this. It’s all wrong. You have to redo it.”

     The stylist’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Re… redo it?” she said faintly.

     Nezumi nodded sagely. “Yes, I’m afraid I can’t let Kal interview in this dress. It’s pretty, but very, very wrong. If I might make a suggestion… perhaps trousers and a vest? I think the androgyny will work well for us. And no yellow, please.”

     Nezumi brushed by the stylist, who by now had gone completely white, and placed a hand on Kal’s shoulder. Kal flinched, but allowed it.

     Nezumi smiled gently at the stylist. “I know it’s a challenge to recreate the piece with the amount of time left, but I think you can do it. Would you? For Kal? Or, at least for me?”

     The prep team defrosted a little at the gentility in his demeanor.

     “W-well…” the stylist choked out. “Well. Yes, I… I suppose.” She turned away sharply. “Come now, everyone. We’re going back to the design room. See if we can scrounge up any other fabric… Take the dress, quickly. We haven’t much time.”

     The prep team and stylist scrambled to collect their things.

     “You must come back with us too,” the stylist barked at Kal. Kal was looking pretty well pleased with the situation, but turned instantly defensive. The woman rolled her eyes. “We need to retake your measurements. A suit jacket and trousers is an entirely different beast. Now, _come_.” She shoved Kal out with the rest of her team.

     Nezumi stood alone in the room, finally. He ran a hand over his face and sighed. Today was not pulling any punches.

     “What did I tell you about the sighing?”

     Nezumi dropped his hand. Gran stood in the doorway. The lines of her face were hard and disapproving, but her expression very rarely differed. It was the disappointment in her eyes that told Nezumi he was in for a lecture.

     Nezumi sighed again, heavier and longer than before. Gran’s mouth curved ever downward.

     “Come on, Gran. It’s been a hell of a day. I think I’ve earned a sigh or two. I went to that luncheon and practically prostituted—” He snapped his mouth shut.

     Gran’s eyes flickered and Nezumi was terrified of the concern he glimpsed in their depths.

     “What do you want?” Nezumi demanded. “It’s obvious you came here to chew me out, so get on with it.”

     Gran studied him, but at last Nezumi saw the hardness return.

     “You’re getting attached.”

     Nezumi narrowed his eyes. “What?”

     “You need to stop, Nezumi. You’re going to get yourself hurt. Well, more hurt.” Gran shook her head and took a step into the room. The space seemed smaller with her standing in the middle of it. “You can’t save them.”

     Nezumi stilled. A creeping cold reached into his chest, snuffing out the anger and fear that had burned so intently just a second ago. Gran’s face was merciless, just the same deep lines and grave expression.

     “Kal and Rico have no chance. You know it, we know it, and worse, Panem knows it. You need to prepare yourself. I know it’s hard, but…” Gran pressed her lips together and reached to touch Nezumi’s hand. “Don’t give Kal false hope. And don't harbor any either.”

     Nezumi snatched his hand back. “What about you and Rou, huh? Always telling them it’s not the end of the world that they received crappy scores, that they have a chance as long as they run fast enough, climb high enough? _You’re_ the ones who have been giving them false hope, not me. I never told them anything like that.”

     Nezumi backed away from her. He and Gran had never gotten along well, but she had never felt so poisonous as she did now. Nezumi shook his head.

     “Why do you do it then? Why do you lie to their faces?”

     “There’s always a chance in the beginning…” Gran turned her face aside. “Hidden talents, sponsors. We get lucky sometimes. But this is not one of those times. I’ve been at this long enough to know.” Gran faced him again, stony once more. “I’m trying to help you, Nezumi. This is a mentor’s reality. I think you’ve known it a long time, but now you need to face it.”

     Nezumi forced himself to be still, to be undaunted. There was logic in her words, cold but acute. He knew it; he would have understood it last year and the year before, before the Games had happened to him. But he couldn’t find that callous youth anymore. All he felt was sick. Sick with himself, with this situation, with the pitiless stare of his fellow mentor carving a hole in his chest.

     Nezumi held himself still for as long as he could, and then fled the room.


	9. Rend

     Despite all their hemming and hawing, the stylists delivered Kal’s new look in time for the interviews. They had listened to him explicitly; the girlish yellow angle had been scrapped and Kal cut a dapper figure in an olive green dress shirt, black vest, and matching slacks. Their hair was tied up in a high ponytail, with a few loose strands to frame their face. Masculine dress, feminine styling. Nezumi had to admit it was good work. A perfect fit for what they had practiced for the interview.

     “Are you sure this is going to work?” Kal asked again in a low whisper. They reached up to swipe the hair away from their face, but stopped short and dropped their hands.

     “It will do what it needs to do,” Nezumi intoned back.

     By the nervous look on Rico’s face across the room, he was receiving similar reassurances from Gran and Rou. Gran glanced over and Nezumi met her eyes for a second before turning away.

     “Just stick to what we practiced,” Nezumi told Kal. “Pretend you’re talking to me. But don’t insult the Capitol.”

     Kal snorted. “I’m not an idiot.”

     “Exactly. Don’t be an idiot and you should be fine. Just do your best.”

     Kal side eyed him drily, and Nezumi shrugged a shoulder.

     Gregor appeared then, smiling brightly, but looking no less queasy for it. “It’s time!” he said. “Kal, Rico, please follow these gentlemen to the stage.”

     The two tributes flashed pale glances at their mentors, but filed from the room as instructed. Gregor gave them encouragement and well wishes as they disappeared around the corner, then beckoned the mentors to follow him to their seats.

     All the mentors were boxed into the first row of the auditorium. Nezumi followed Gran into the row and sat silently by her side. They weren’t fighting—at least Nezumi didn’t think they were—but he was too preoccupied with the children soon to make their debut to bother giving attention to anything else. Judging by Gran’s rigid posture and unerring gaze on Verde Ricci’s chair on stage, she was similarly distracted.

     The room hummed with chatter, but the mentor’s row was quiet. Every former tribute’s eyes were glued to the stage, and for once not one of their faces wore a smirk or smile. The cameras didn’t care for them right now and the masks had slipped off for the moment.

     The Panem anthem blared over the speakers and the stage erupted into spotlight. Verde Ricci danced out onto the stage, glittering like a jewel. Her locks were the color of sunflowers and Nezumi was especially glad Kal had not been thrown out on the stage in that yellow dress; they would have wilted beneath Verde’s glow.

     Verde giggled and flounced into her plush sapphire chair, shushing the crowd into a more manageable hubbub.

     “What a turn out we have tonight!” Verde enthused and the crowd responded with cheers in kind, as if they weren’t legally obligated to be there. Or maybe it was just the districts that were mandated. “I am so excited to be on this stage,” Verde said. “The tributes this year are _killer_ , am I right?”

     More cheers, whoops, claps. Nezumi’s head ached.

     “But don’t take my word for it—let’s have it from District 1’s own Beryl!”

     A snub-nosed girl strutted onto the stage. She flashed her canines at the camera, then Verde, and then sat. The interviews had begun.

     A parade of personalities danced across the stage. District 1 was bold and cocky, District 2 was sultry and strong, District 3 evasive. Some pulled off their prescribed persona better than others. 1, 2, and 4 had a leg up, as always, likely because they weren’t acting. They had been conditioned to act like self-entitled snobs, so they always played well to the Capitol.

     Nezumi kept himself still and impassive as the tributes cycled through. Girl, boy, girl, boy, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…

     Nezumi shifted. Verde’s mouth made a dainty “O” when Kal stepped out onto the stage. The outfit made the desired impression. Now all Kal had to do was follow it up.

     Kal found their way to the chair with reasonable composure and perched on the edge of the cushion, as though preparing for quick flight.

     Verde smiled sweetly. “What a darling outfit! Your stylists have really outdone themselves.”

     Kal merely shrugged. “I guess. Beats wearing a dress.”

     This received a few chuckles from the audience. Nezumi nodded in his seat. _Good._

     “Well, they are certainly hard to fight in,” Verde conceded. She petted down the skirt of her dress. “What you’re wearing is much more practical for the Games.”

     Nezumi saw Kal tense. _Keep it together. Three minutes left._

     “You seem like quite the tomboy. Do you always dress like that in 7?”

     “I like pants, if that’s what you’re asking. People take you more seriously if you wear pants. I don’t want anyone’s pity.”

     “You sound so fierce! I never would have guessed from the Reaping. It seems like training has really helped you come into your own.”

     “I’ve always been like this. I know how to take care of myself.” Kal scowled at Verde, and Nezumi knew there was genuine offense in their glare.

     Verde too seemed to be able to recognize acting from the real thing. She fluttered for a second, her smile growing to phony proportions. “I see. Well, seeing you now, I’m not surprised. You look like someone who knows what they want.” She drew in a breath. “Now, I have to bring up your score…”

     Verde winced as she spoke the words, and Nezumi wanted to growl at her. Wasn’t it her job to make the tributes look good? Why did she have to place prejudgments in the viewers’ minds?

     “A five is not the worst score,” Verde continued, “but how do you feel knowing you’re going up against tributes with sevens and eights?”

     Kal snorted. “Only an idiot would judge a tribute by the score they get. It’s all an act anyway. I’ve got as much a chance as any of them.”

     Nezumi smirked. Kal had become sufficiently riled up. It didn’t seem like he had anything to fear from their performance.

     Verde nodded sagely. “Of course. You can never tell who’s a real contender until the Games begin. We’ve had some dark horses in the past.”

     “Exactly. I mean, Nezumi won last year, and he looks about as deadly as a pond lily.”

     The crowd broke into a round of appreciative laughter. Nezumi made sure to smile in case the camera found him. Kal shrunk shyly from the attention, but smiled a little in spite of it.

     “Anything’s possible,” Kal finished with a shrug.

     Verde smiled and placed a hand on Kal’s shoulder. “You’re quite right. It’s anyone’s game. And I, for one, will be rooting for you.” Verde swiveled to the audience. “I’m afraid time’s up. Ladies and gentlemen, a big hand for Kal!”

     Kal rose to the sound of thunderous applause. They wandered back to their seat, looking dazed, but relieved.

     Then it was Rico’s turn. He greeted Verde shyly and she fussed over how young and cute he was.

     “I might be young, but I’m not weak,” Rico insisted. “I’ve been practicing a lot.”

     Verde’s eyes were soft with adoration. “Yes, of course. No one could count you out yet. What is your greatest advantage, do you think?”

     Rico stared at her.

 _He froze up_ , Nezumi thought fearfully. _That’s a standard question!_

     Rico smacked his lips. “It’s a secret,” he said.

     Verde laughed and Rico grinned, proud of himself, but Nezumi felt uneasy. That was too close. Tributes couldn't afford a second of wasted time.

     “Well, how about a question that isn’t a secret?” Verde said, tapping her chin to think. “What’s your favorite thing about the Capitol?”

     Rico eyes shone. “The food!”

     He launched into an impassioned speech about the dishes, delicacies, and desserts, and by the time he finished everyone was hungry. Rico was played off the stage to applause and watering mouths.

     Nezumi replayed Kal and Rico’s interviews. Not any major mistakes. They’d held their own.

 _But is it enough?_  

\----

     Nezumi paced the length of the room, well behind the other mentors. Some of them threw him pitying looks, but most kept their eyes trained forward. Nezumi glanced at the surround screens, but they were still black. He paced faster.

     He knew he should sit. He knew he looked very much the newest victor. But what did it matter? Who was there to perform for? The other mentors had been in his place once—were in his place every year since.

 _This is sick_ , Nezumi growled to himself, and he might’ve also growled audibly because a few more mentors half turned to look at him. Rou was one of them. He frowned, his dark eyes sad.

     “Nezumi. Come here. Sit,” he urged gently.

     Nezumi shook his head, but then the screens lit up and he was at Rou’s side in an instant. The tributes were rising on their pedestals in fateful unison. Nezumi took in the scene, snatching at anything and everything his gaze landed on.

     The arena was cold and damp. Stone. There were four tunnels spread out equidistant from each other. The pedestals rose up in the center of an open atrium, a short sprint away from any of them. The cornucopia lay in the middle, a tangle of sharp, sleek rocks, jutting out from top and bottom like teeth in the maw of a colossal beast.

     The weapons lay inside. Nezumi couldn’t see what they were before the camera angle changed to show the faces of the tributes. It swept across them in slow panoramic, the sound of the clock booming down from sixty playing in the background. There was Beryl, and Zapp from 5 beside her. Angus from 9…

     “Ooh,” squealed one of the announcers. “Look at this arena!”

     “I know!” crowed his partner. “The Gamemakers really outdid themselves this year. For you folks in the nosebleed section, this year the arena is modeled after a cave—or a cave complex, really. The atrium here leads out to a series of tunnels. The Game will take place in virtual darkness.”

     “Well, for the tributes, at least,” the first announcer said. “The arena is outfitted with night vision cameras, so we won’t miss a second of the action.”

     “The tributes do have low power LEDs on the palms of their suits, though, Felix. So they’re not left completely in the dark.”

     “That’s true, Marcus, but do you _really_ want to use that when everyone can see you?”

     Nezumi tuned the announcers out and searched the grave faces until he found Rico, and Kal a few places down from him. They both were white faced. Kal’s head swiveled back and forth, taking in their surroundings.

     Nezumi’s parting advice had been to avoid the bloodbath and hide if they could. Running and hiding didn’t seem like it would be a problem; the light in the atrium was poor, and the tunnels were pitch black behind the tributes. But they didn’t know what lurked in the cave complex.

     Kal seemed to have the same thought—they turned and gazed into the open darkness behind them, throat working down a heavy swallow.

     The male tribute from 12, Fissure, perked up as he looked around him, and Nezumi noticed the two Careers from 2 seemed equally pleased.

     “Fissure looks excited,” Marcus murmured.

     “I’d be too, if I were him,” Felix said. “12 is the mining district—he’s probably counting his lucky stars right now!”

     “Who knows? This might be District 12’s time to shine.”

     “Literally!”

     Felix and Marcus shared a hearty laugh that no one in the mentor room joined in on. Nezumi was, however, vaguely aware of Cinder watching the screen intently, her hands curled into fists. As District 12’s lone victor, she was probably feeling pretty hopeful.

     Nezumi glanced at the corner of the screen. The timer clicked down: 10, 9, 8, 7...

     His heart hammered in his chest. _The tunnel is right there._ He traded glances between Kal and Rico, measuring the distance to relative      safety behind them. _Just turn and run_.

     The cannon boomed and the children were off like shots. Nezumi followed Kal’s sprint off the pedestal to the mouth of the nearest tunnel. They didn’t cast so much as a glance behind them, but thankfully they needn’t have worried. No one paid them any mind. Nezumi released the breath he had been holding and searched for Rico.

_Shit!_

     Rico had stepped off his pedestal but that was it. The cameras were focused on the thick of the bloodbath, Careers hacking at the less fortunate, and occasionally each other as they fought over the choicest weapons. No one had yet noticed Rico frozen on the periphery, but that wouldn’t last long.

     The female tribute from 2 sliced Zapp's stomach open. He clutched his innards and fell to the stone with a heavy _thump_. Rico gasped mutely and finally seemed to awaken. He took a step back and stumbled over the pedestal. Six Career heads swiveled in his direction.

     “Run, you idiot!” Nezumi yelled.

     Rico scrambled to his feet and ran. The Careers’ legs were longer, stronger, faster. Rico was fifteen feet from the closest tunnel. The cameras had eyes only for him as the Careers caught up and snatched at his limbs, dragging him down like a pack of wolves. One had a pickaxe. The head of the axe rose and fell in a swift arc and Rico’s terrified scream cut off abruptly.

_Boom!_

     Nezumi stared at the screen, mouth half open. His ears rang in the deathly quiet of the room.

     The Careers patted each other on the back and surveyed the area for survivors. Then they headed out, leaving the cameras to catalog the dead.

     Someone was saying his name. Nezumi half cocked his head to listen. A hand rested on his shoulder and guided him to a seat. Gran and Rou hovered over him, asking him…something. Other eyes were on him. Rico’s eyes were on him.

     “I’m fine,” Nezumi said to the questions. “I’m fine.” 

\----

     Four deaths that day. Nezumi rested against the railing on the rooftop of the Training Center, and replayed each one. Zapp from 5, Zari and Melton from 8…and Rico.

 _A poor turn out for day one,_ Nezumi thought bitterly.

     He took a few steps back from the railing and threw the bottle cap he was holding. It bounced off the force field and flew back. Nezumi caught it, and squeezed it in his hand, feeling its ridges bite into his palm.

     He remembered the pouty noises of the announcers as they closed off the program for the night, comparing the toll of the day with last year’s. Any good bloodbath had six or more casualties. The Capitol would be settling in for bed now, unappeased.

     “Fuck you.” Nezumi whipped the bottle cap over the railing. It ricocheted off and zipped past his head. The high wind howled. Nezumi curled his hands into fists.

     Something soared past his side and Nezumi flinched back. The object plunked against the ground, a foot short of the railing and rolled to a halt: The bottle cap.

     Nezumi twisted around. Shion stood a few feet back, holding his unruly bangs in place so he could see amidst the gusts. Shion shrugged a shoulder sheepishly, probably to explain his lousy throw.

     “Go away,” Nezumi growled.

     Shion screwed his face up and cupped a hand over his ear.

     “Go away!” Nezumi yelled louder. “I want to be alone.”

     But Shion just shook his head and approached. Once at Nezumi’s side, he pointed to his ear, indicated the windy conditions, and made an apologetic hand gesture. Shion tilted his head, but Nezumi had lost the will to repeat himself.

     “You shouldn’t be here,” he grumbled at Shion. “People will notice if we’re together too often.” He walked to the railing and leered at the other teen. “If you’ve come to comfort me, save it. I don’t need your pity. It’s not like I didn’t know it would happen.”

     Shion’s brow creased. Then his face went slack. Shion covered his mouth, eyes wide and pained.

     “Oh… Well, shit.” Nezumi laughed drily. “You didn’t know, did you? They don’t let Avoxes watch the Games? That’s a treat. You get your freaking tongue ripped out, but at least you don’t have to watch the Hunger Games.”

     Shion stepped forward and grasped Nezumi’s arm. His grip was hard enough to hurt. It felt like he was trying to wring the answer to the unspoken question from his skin.

     Nezumi exhaled through his nose. “It was Rico,” he said quietly.

     Shion’s throat contracted. He dropped his head, his bangs masking the grief he no doubt wore.

     “A pickaxe,” Nezumi continued blandly. “In the bloodbath of all places. The freaking bloodbath! We told him to run! The clock runs down, and you get the hell out of there. Kal had no trouble understanding, but of course, Rico freezes up. I should have known he would. He’s always been…”

     Nezumi clenched his jaw. Shion’s grip on his arm loosened. His hand slipped off and his arms wound around Nezumi’s waist to pull him into a tight hug. He could feel Shion’s mute sobs shivering against his chest.

     Nezumi sighed into the open air. “Aren’t you supposed to be consoling me? Not the other way around?”

     Shion squeezed him harder in response.

     Nezumi tried to smirk, but it came out a grimace. He tucked his mouth against Shion’s shoulder so no one would see.


	10. Rebellion

     The bloodbath might have been mediocre, but head Gamemaker Argus Rex seemed hell-bent on redeeming himself in the days that followed. The arena was a veritable rat maze of terror.

     The tunnels were not only gloomy and narrow, but they were made even more difficult to traverse due to the stalactites and stalagmites crowding them. The bioluminescent mushrooms provided little reprieve from the claustrophobic dark, and they were poisonous, as Lavender from 11 was unfortunate enough to demonstrate.

     To every mentor’s chagrin and the announcers’ delight, Angus grew so frustrated with the darkness he started to use the luminescent pads on the hands of his suit to navigate the tunnels. 9’s mentors were pale with anger and the certainty that their tribute’s death was imminent, and they were right. Angus lasted an hour wandering hands first before the Careers hunted him down and dispatched him.

     Every night, the dead were projected onto the moon in the atrium. When the action grew too stagnant, the Gamemakers would orchestrate a cave in or flood to get the tributes moving again, toward each other if it went to plan. The first time a cave in happened an unlucky tribute suffocated, but the Gamemakers were careful not to let that happen a second time. Suffocation was a boring death to watch.

     Beryl discovered the mutts. The Careers had been wandering the tunnels in search of prey, and stumbled into a large glowing antechamber. Mushrooms coated the ground and the ceiling was a tapestry of fluorescent spindle legs. They hung like string from the ceiling in alternating clusters of blue-white and pink. The Careers eyed them with suspicion, but the only way forward was through the spindles, unless they wanted to turn back and find another path.

     Beryl would not accept such cowardice and ventured forth to pluck the strings. The effect was instantaneous. The strings flared out to the sides and the sound of bird wings and mouse laughter filled the room. Dozens of bats dropped from the ceiling. Beryl’s yelp of surprise changed to shrieks as the creatures engulfed her. It was difficult to see through the swarm of bodies, but Nezumi saw one of the bats sink its teeth into Beryl’s throat.

     When the bats were finished with Beryl they left her corpse like an emptied out husk on the cold cave floor. They had sucked her dry, like proper vampires. The floor opened and Beryl’s body dropped into even blacker oblivion. Nezumi found it a bit overwrought and dramatic, but that didn’t make him any less nervous.

     The other Careers had hightailed it out of there at the first sign of danger, but a few bats gave chase. Percy from 4 was bitten, but managed to kill the bat and its fellows. The remaining Careers released a sigh of relief at their narrow escape.

     The relief was short-lived. Percy began a rapid decline, starting with pain and itching around the skin of the bite. Even with the medication he had received from sponsors, his symptoms worsened to fever and hallucinations within hours of the encounter. Nezumi suspected what it was, and he also knew that the Gamemakers must have tailor-made a fast acting strain, since rabies usually took a few days, at least, to incubate.

     Percy was doing his best to hide his symptoms from the rest of the pack, but hallucinations were difficult things to keep hidden. It wasn’t long before Percy turned agitated and frothing and his partners had to put him down. After that, some sponsor decided it was a good idea to send the Careers a shipment of night vision goggles.

     Through all this, Kal remained blessedly safe. They were small, sneaky, and suspicious by nature, so they had an advantage with the extra layer of darkness. Kal had no trouble hiding among the stalagmites during rest periods and when they thought they heard another tribute heading their way. Kal’s natural suspicion towards everything also helped them avoid some of the perils to which other tributes fell victim, like the glowing bats and mushrooms. Kal subsisted on a steady stream of grumbled curses and the lizards crawling in the dark tunnels.

     The night vision goggles, though, made Nezumi’s stomach clench. Kal wasn’t often shown on screen since their existence was remarkably bloodless, but Nezumi watched the Careers with rising anxiety as they picked out tribute after tribute in the darkness.

     The Games were a week in, and Kal hadn’t had a run in with the Careers yet. They had done well to survive, but they hadn’t fought once and that worried him. The Careers were outfitted with knives, pick axes, and clubs; Kal hadn’t even picked up a weapon. Part of Nezumi was proud that Kal had gotten this far without spilling blood. He wanted to keep them stainless, but he needed to know that Kal could do what it took to get out.

     On screen, Flint from 2 had broken off from the Career pack to find food. He sauntered around the tunnels, bopping stalactites lightly with his pick axe, confident of his way in his night vision goggles. Nezumi sneered. _Entitled brat._

     The Careers already had such a high advantage physically, but of course this would be a Game where money would separate the winners from the losers. If they could at least level the visual playing field, the other tributes might have a chance, but who on the poorer districts’ side had money for night vision goggles?

     Flint stabbed a lizard skittering across the wall with the axe and smiled at it. “Hello, dinner.”

     “Hello.”

     The room jumped. The camera flashed to a different angle for a dramatic last-second reveal of another tribute, tucked into a hole near the arch of the tunnel. Flint had about a second to register the danger before his skull was caved in.

     The camera focused on the male tribute from 12—Fissure—as he inched out of the darkness toward the Career’s prone form. Flint let out a death rattle and Fissure spooked and slammed his club down a second time.

_Boom!_

     Every mouth in the mentor room dropped open. A tribute from 12 had just killed a Career without a fight.

     Fissure used his suit lights to check the damage and immediately reared back and closed his hands. Covering his mouth to hold in the sick, he used his thumb and pointer to extract the night vision goggles from the remnants of Flint’s head. The lens was cracked on one side, but from the looks of it they still worked.

 _Good for you, kid,_ Nezumi thought as Fissure absconded with his bounty.

     The room hummed. The mentors from 2 shot Cinder dirty looks, but Cinder was too dumbfounded to notice.

     Two more hours passed with no other upsets. Nezumi gnawed his lower lip as he watched the tributes crawl like rats through the darkness. Ever since the bloodbath he had been steadily wearing away at the skin, and it was raw and ragged now. He tasted blood. Nezumi stopped, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and grabbing a flute of something from the refreshments to wash down the taste of iron and salt.

     “You okay?”

     Nezumi turned slightly. Gran frowned back at him.

     “Fine. Thirsty.” He placed the empty flute on the table. “You?”

     Gran didn’t answer and Nezumi nodded automatically. They both turned back to the screen.

     “They’ve made it this far,” Gran said, voice quiet enough not to stir the room, or any fledging hope that dared to creep between them.

     Nezumi kept his bleeding lips firmly shut.

     The occupants of the room shifted and Nezumi started paying attention to the screen rather than just staring through it.

     He went rigid. Kal was onscreen, drinking from a small stream they’d found between two rocks, but they were not alone. The screen to the left showed a silhouette down the adjacent tunnel. Creeping, like it was hunting something.

     Nezumi pushed through to the front of the room. Kal kept drinking, unaware of the danger. The camera glinted off the shadow, in the vicinity of its head. The person had night vision goggles.

     “Kal…” Nezumi said tightly.

     Kal’s head shot up. They sat very still, head cocked slightly to the side. The figure slowed. The person was slight and alone and Nezumi knew it could only be Fissure.

 _Hide, Kal. He might pass over you. You’re not a threat to him._ He glanced at Fissure’s dark form. _He must know that._

     A look of dread swept over Kal’s face, and Nezumi could have prayed right then. As quickly and as quietly as they could, Kal snuck into the nearest alcove of stalagmites and made themself as small as possible inside it.

     Fissure’s gaze followed them, and then Nezumi watched him creep toward Kal’s hiding spot.

 _No._ Nezumi’s hands tightened at his sides. He expected the Careers to hunt, but this… _I cheered him on._ Bile rose in Nezumi’s throat.

     Kal hugged their knees to their chest and screwed their face up, straining their ears for sounds of approach. Fissure moved like smoke across the floor. He had the club in his left hand, and he gripped it tighter as he settled himself behind the stalagmites where Kal hid. Kal’s brow creased as if they might’ve heard him. But they stayed still.

 _He can see you,_ Nezumi’s heart cried. _Get out, Kal._

     The club was a heavy thing, made of thick, knotted wood. Its edge was smeared with dried blood. Fissure drew back his arm, silent as death.

_Don’t._

     Nezumi saw the hesitation in Fissure’s eyes as he stood, poised to strike. This wasn’t like killing Flint; Kal was an underdog like him.

_Please, don’t._

     He saw the flash of fear and disgust, and he saw the decision. Nezumi forced his breath out in one massive exhale. If he had no breath, he couldn’t scream. Fissure struck. Kal crumpled sideways and hit the floor in unison with the cannon fire.

     Fissure jumped back, as if he had been the one struck. He gripped the club out in front of him, but Kal lay still at his feet, the cannon boom echoing like heartbeats. Fissure stepped forward and did a quick search through Kal’s pockets.

     Nezumi’s swallow mirrored Fissure’s as the tribute realized Kal had nothing. Not a useful item, or a weapon, or even a token. Fissure backed away and ran swiftly from the scene.

     Nezumi’s body tingled. It took him a moment to realize he felt someone staring at him. He turned and met Cinder’s gaze across the room. Her mouth was caught between apology and gravity. The Peacekeepers around the room eyed him, their hands causally hooked over their batons.

     Nezumi smiled at Cinder. It was a shell of a smile, but enough of a forgery to stir uncertainty in the room. “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he told her. His voice sounded level. Reasonable. “It’s the Games.”

     Cinder pressed her lips together and glanced back at the screen. But the cameras had already moved on. Kal’s death was just a scene in the Capitol’s motion picture event.

     “Kal played well,” Cinder said, turning back to him. “You should be proud.” She looked at Nezumi, Rou, and Gran in turn, and they accepted her words with solemn solidarity.

     The Games went on afterwards, but not for Nezumi. He drifted towards the periphery of the room over the next few minutes, and after everyone had forgotten him and fixated on the screens once more, he slipped out into the hallway. He strode past the Peacekeepers stationed by the doors, headed for the bathroom. Rounded the corner, saw no one, picked up his pace.

     He ran from the building. The streets were quiet; night had fallen and everyone was inside to watch the last leg of the Hunger Games play out. The only sounds were his feet slapping against stones and the whistling of his labored breaths. He burned. His lungs, his heart, his face—everything was on fire. The pressure suffocated.

     Nezumi made it to the Training Center before breaking. He felt the cracks as he reached the doors, and veered to the side of the building to crouch in the shadows. His gasps turned to sobs. His tears were angry, they were indignant, they were the first tears he had shed for another person, and they were bitter on his tongue.

     Kal deserved better. They deserved to be a kid in the sun, not another body in the dark. The knowledge that there was nothing more he could have done for them twisted his anger and misery until his body ached with it.

     Who would care for the dogs in 7 now? Who would he toss insults back and forth with? A hundred masochistic remembrances ran through his mind, and he cried harder because he was somewhat envious. For Kal the nightmare was over. But he would have to live with this failure until life or the Capitol ended him.

 _At least it had been quick._ At least Kal didn’t see it coming. At least they didn’t suffer. The world had grace enough for one small mercy.

     Nezumi smothered the grief eventually, but it hovered just at the back of his throat, ready to surge forward the moment he let his guard down. He stood up and wiped his face clean. He felt like nothing as he found his way into the elevator.

     The Avoxes froze as the doors dinged open and Nezumi stepped out. They had apparently been in the middle of cleaning. The whirr of vacuum cleaners punctuated the wide-eyed silence between them.

     Nezumi stared blankly back. “Where’s Shion?”

     The vacuum noise cut off and the Avoxes exchanged looks.

     Nezumi registered that they might not know Shion’s name. He wasn’t sure how often these Avoxes communicated with each other or in what capacity. It occurred to him that he shouldn’t call Shion out like this. He shouldn’t know the name of an Avox and he shouldn’t baldly interact with one either.

     Nezumi didn’t care.

     “The Avox with the white hair. Where is he?”

     One of the Avoxes pointed toward the kitchen. It was the girl who’d helped him with the cake. A grunt of thanks passed Nezumi’s lips as he headed for the kitchen. Shion was not in there. Nezumi stood next to the sterile countertops and felt a heaviness settle over him. He should go back to his room. He wanted darkness. He longed for oblivion.

     Shion stepped out of the pantry and froze. His face flinched and his mouth opened as if he might say Nezumi’s name, but of course no words came out.

     “Shion.”

     Shion’s look sharpened. He dumped the contents of his arms onto the counter and hastened to Nezumi. Shion didn’t question his presence or state. Nothing could have brought Nezumi here except the worst. Shion took his hands in his.

     Once, Nezumi would have drawn away, told him off, retreated to lick his wounds imperfectly where no one could see. Now… The steady pressure against his skin was a curiosity. Shion’s hands were warm, Nezumi registered with half a mind.

 _Human beings are warm_. The observation was so obvious, but it felt like an epiphany to Nezumi. Everything had been cold and desolate since he first stepped onto the Reaping stage more than a year ago, and the farther he reached back, he found that there hadn’t been much warmth before that either. His chest ached for a time in the long distant past, for a day he could scarcely remember, when he hadn’t known the beat of his heart was a gift, not a given.

     Shion’s face had taken on an aspect of unease as he studied Nezumi. He squeezed Nezumi’s hands tighter, as if to ask, _Are you okay?_ As if to say, _Come back to me._ As if to remind him, _You’re not alone._

     Nezumi closed his eyes. The Capitol had been leeching the fire of life from him since he was born, but somehow, within the city itself, he grasped it again, in the warmth of an Avox’s regard.

     Nezumi twisted his hand to clasp Shion’s and led him out of the kitchen. The other Avoxes had disappeared from the living room, which suited Nezumi. The less witnesses, the better, and for once he felt fortunate that Avoxes could not speak. He pulled Shion into the elevator behind him and pressed the button for the rooftop.

     Nezumi let Shion’s hand go once they where standing in the open air. The wind ripped across the rooftop, as if stirred by Nezumi’s resolve. He crossed to the railing and faced Shion.

     “I’m leaving the Capitol.”

     Shion’s face showed neither shock nor fear. He just considered. Shion stepped forward and gave Nezumi a tight hug, then stepped back, a small, well-wishing smile on his face. Emotions danced behind his dark eyes, and all were tinged with sadness.

     “Come with me.”

     Shion’s eyes widened. His lips parted just the slightest bit and Nezumi swallowed. The words had left his mouth of their own accord, but Nezumi wouldn’t take them back—and he didn’t have to.

     Shion drew in a short breath through his mouth, closed it, and nodded.

     A little bit of the weight eased off Nezumi’s shoulders. “Good,” he said, nodding back to seal the treasonous pact between them. “When?”

 _Now_ , Shion mouthed.

     Nezumi nodded again. Something like hope flickered in his chest as he looked into Shion’s eyes. They burned brightly now, a flame reminiscent of the one they held the night they met. Nezumi wondered if his eyes reflected the same fervor. The small, conspiratorial smile that slipped onto Shion’s face told him they might.


	11. Runaways

     Nezumi listened to the whistle of wind and his chest tightened. He and Shion had resolved to flee the Capitol, a treacherous and irrevocable decision once acted upon. But Nezumi felt the cool of the night seep into his skin and he realized he didn’t know where to start or where they would finish. He had brought Shion into his plans; the burden of taking charge and leading them to safety rested on his shoulders now.

     Or so he thought. But in the next few hours Nezumi couldn’t be sure if he really had been the instigator of their rebellion.

     Barely a second passed as Nezumi and Shion stared into each other’s eyes, the spark of imagined freedom kindling between them. Then Shion turned and gestured at Nezumi to head back toward the elevator. Nezumi followed him, uneasy. Fleeing the Capitol was easier said than done, and he was already cataloging the obstacles that would stand between them.

     “We can’t bring much,” Nezumi said quietly once they were in the elevator. “But we’ll need to grab a bag and some clothes, at least…” He wondered where they could get food and water. It would be too risky to take it from the Training Center. They had to avoid as many cameras and public places as possible.

     Nezumi noticed Shion shaking his head from the corner of his eye. Nezumi turned to him and frowned, not understanding his objection.

     Shion pointed to the floor 7 button and made an X with his hands, wearing an expression so forbidding Nezumi’s stomach twisted in apprehension. Shion pressed the B button instead. The elevator plummeted toward what could only be the basement of the building.

     Nezumi burned to ask Shion why floor 7 was off limits, and why they were going to the basement, but he knew Shion wouldn’t be able to explain with his communication limited as it was.

 _Something must have happened while I was gone today._ Nezumi clenched his jaw. They had barely even begun and it seemed that something had already gone wrong. He cast a look at Shion. The other teen wore an expression of focus. His eyes were far away, as though he were trying hard to recall a vital bit of information.

     The doors opened and Shion came to again. He exited the elevator and waved Nezumi to follow him, and Nezumi did, feeling more and more behind by the minute.

     Shion led them into a small, gray room. The mouth of a large chute gapped at the opposite end, and a dingy-looking cart stood beneath to catch whatever it expelled. Shion rummaged through the cart and pulled out a gray tunic and pants, which he proffered to Nezumi. Nezumi took the clothing and noticed they were the same hue and style as Shion’s. He looked up and into Shion’s face.

     “How long have you been planning this?” He kept his voice low, in case of hidden listening devices, and it made his awe sound even more reverent.

     Shion smiled crookedly. While Nezumi changed, Shion scrounged for useful items and came up with two towels, a few pairs of mismatched socks, and a small laundry bag to carry everything in. Nezumi nodded in approval and waited to see if Shion had anything more up his sleeve.

     He did. He led them back into the hall and down into a boiler room. Shion scanned the room, poking around the machinery and the walls. His mouth slashed a grim line across his face and there was a determined set to his shoulders. It was a version of Shion Nezumi had never seen before, and by the time Nezumi realized he should stop watching and actually assist in whatever he was searching for, Shion had opened a maintenance closet and perked up. Shion turned to Nezumi with excitement, pointing at the shoebox-sized space.

     Nezumi furrowed his brow, but the reason for Shion’s delight revealed itself when he approached. There was a hole in the floor of the closet, with a loose sheet of mesh plastered over it. The hole was a little less than three feet wide, and Nezumi thought he heard a faint _ssh_ coming from it. It sounded like running water.

     Shion pulled the mesh off, sat, and swung his legs over and into the hole. He paused and looked up at Nezumi. Nezumi traded a look between Shion and the hole. Curiosity and the knowledge that he had no alternatives left him no choice in the end.

     Nezumi shrugged and mouthed, _Look out below,_ which won a smile from Shion. Shion hoisted the laundry bag over his head and slunk into the hole. He slipped silently out of sight. Nezumi swallowed and peered into the opening, but it was nothing but blackness. Carefully, he sat and slid over to the rim of the hole. With a deep breath, he made himself as compact as possible and dropped down after Shion.

     Nezumi’s stomach plummeted as he fell, feeling the grind of the tube’s walls against his shoulders. The fall lasted just long enough for the fear of getting bottlenecked to pop into his head. Then it was over and he landed sloppily in a pool of water.

     Nezumi shot to his feet and coughed. The water was freezing, and it smelled. Nezumi shook himself off the best he could and looked around. The only light came from a dingy brown strip a yard or so down the way. It appeared that they had dropped into some kind of maintenance tunnel beneath the city.

 _How did Shion know this was here?_ Nezumi turned to find Shion holding a towel out to him. He was about to remark that Shion had thought of everything when the other teen draped his own towel over his head like a hood, rather than drying himself off with it. Shion pointed to several spots around the ceiling and tightened the corners of the towel around his face.

 _He really_ did _think of everything._ Nezumi wasn’t sure who this person was anymore. He had seemed so meek and helpless just a few hours before.

     Shion thought a second and then set off down the tunnel to their right, skimming his hand against the wall to guide him. Nezumi was trying his best to stay quiet and let Shion carry on in his mysteriously confident way, but after a minute of traveling the tunnel in near darkness, a question slipped out. “How do you know about this place?”

     Shion pressed a finger to his lips and pointed around the tunnel again. _Guess the questions will have to wait,_ Nezumi conceded as he slogged through the ankle-deep water as quietly as he could manage. But never had he felt more injustice towards the Capitol for rendering Shion mute. He trusted Shion—there was no way for it, since they’d hitched their fates together that fateful night a year ago—but he wanted to _know_ , not blindly trust.

     The tunnel had a wet, musty smell and that was about all Nezumi noticed. There wasn’t much to look at but Shion’s back and the lights up above. Occasionally, he thought he saw the eye of a camera glint across the way. He adjusted the towel draped over his head and walked on in silence.

     At last, the trek through the tunnel ended. Shion’s hand caught on something barred to the wall and he paused to feel it out. Nezumi squinted at the object: a ladder. Shion made what Nezumi decided to label his “considering face,” nodded, and began to climb. The ladder led to an alley. Everything was cloaked in velvety darkness, but the air smelled sweet and full, like bread fresh from the oven.

     Nezumi glanced around but all was silent. _I wonder if anyone’s missed me yet. Someone must have._ At the very least, the Capitol reporters would have looked for him; they always conducted interviews with the mentors when their tributes died. Likewise when a tribute was on a hot streak. He imagined Gran and Rou, subjected to the reporters’ wheedling questions, and making excuses for Nezumi’s absence.

     Nezumi’s mood darkened as he imagined the interviews. He was glad he didn’t stay for that. He didn’t think he could put on a Capitol face after what happened. Kal’s lifeless body floated up from his memory and he pushed it back down with effort.

 _Keep moving forward,_ he told himself _._ Kal would have said the same to him. They wouldn’t want him to mourn. They would’ve spat on his pity. He and Kal were the same in that regard, and so Nezumi knew the only way to honor their memory was to get the hell out of the Capitol as fast as he could.

     Shion tugged at Nezumi’s sleeve and Nezumi broke from his reverie. He pointed to a door in the alley and urged Nezumi toward it, tucking himself just behind his elbow as they approached. Nezumi raised an eyebrow at Shion’s sudden relapse into timidity.

     The smell of bread grew stronger, and the closer he got to the door the scent mingled with those of vanilla and sugar. Nezumi knew immediately where they were and why Shion was acting so reluctant. He took a deep breath and knocked twice, quick and hard. He glanced back at Shion. The other teen looked like he might chew his way through his bottom lip, but thankfully the door opened before he got that far.

     Karan’s dark eyes widened when she saw Nezumi on her doorstep. The towel on his head no doubt added to her surprise and confusion. Her mouth opened but Nezumi raised a finger to his lips. Then he reached into the shadows beside him and tugged Shion into the light. Karan’s hands flew to her mouth and her eyes grew wider. With a hurried step, she drew back and ushered them inside.

     Nezumi recognized the back room, except now the counters and floor were spotless. A mop and bucket were nestled in the corner, and a powder blue washcloth lay crumpled on the edge of the counter. The door to the bedroom at the back stood wide open, the covers of the cot already turned down.

     Karan locked the door and swung around. She and Shion stepped at the same time and wrapped each other in a tight hug. Karan squeezed him tight and laughed and cried at the same time, brushing his face, his hair. When they drew back from each other, Shion beamed, his own tears running silent track lines down his cheeks. Karan brushed his tears away and pressed her lips to his forehead.

     Nezumi hovered by the counters and tried not to appear too big in the small room. He took up the washcloth and swiped at a non-existent speck on the counter until Karan turned from her son and called him.

     “Thank you,” she whispered.

     Nezumi’s heart beat a bittersweet rhythm at the affection in her voice. He had received hardly any gratitude in his life, and no one had ever said it like that. But Karan shouldn’t be thanking him. He did not bring her son back to her so he could stay. He wouldn’t have brought Shion back to her at all if he had come up with the escape route; it wouldn’t even have crossed his mind.

     Nezumi cleared his throat. “We need your help.”

     Karan’s smile became a softer, sadder thing, but she nodded. “I thought you might. I saw what happened in the Games today.” Her eyes were remorseful, but she didn’t tell Nezumi she was sorry or offer any platitudes. She gave Shion’s hand a squeeze and let go, trading a look between them. “You’re running, aren’t you?”

     Nezumi smiled blandly, appreciating the woman more and more by the minute. “We need supplies. Not a lot, but enough to get us out and heading toward the border. A change of clothes would be good too,” Nezumi added, remembering the towel and plucking it off his head. What he _really_ wanted was a shower, but they didn’t have time for such luxuries, so fresh clothes would have to suffice.

     “I’ll get you some of Shion’s old things.” Karan moved toward the bedroom, but paused when Shion caught her by the elbow. Shion mimicked writing on the palm of his hand. Karan murmured her understanding and hurried off.

     Nezumi watched her bustle around the bedroom for a moment before catching Shion’s eye. The boy’s brows were drawn together and he kept knotting and unknotting his hands in front of him, but when his eyes met Nezumi’s he tried to look less nervous.

     “Your mama is a hell of a woman.”

     The lines of Shion’s face smoothed out. He nodded, an edge of pride seeping into the corners of his mouth.

     Karan came back in with clothes for them both and left them on the counter before disappearing again into the front of the store. She came back carrying a small chalkboard, upon which the specials of the day were written. She wiped it clean with the washcloth and laid it down. Shion hurriedly took the piece of chalk she offered him and bent over the counter. Karan and Nezumi stood on either side to read what he wrote.

_We can’t stay long, we need to find a way out tonight. The Capitol is onto us._

     The room seemed to darken.

     “What do you mean?” Nezumi said in a cool hush.

_They came to question me today. About the missing bugs in your room, and why we spend so much time together._

     “Great.” A flicker of anger and fear writhed in Nezumi’s chest. People definitely were missing him then, and the moment they reviewed the camera footage of him looking for Shion and realized Shion had disappeared as well, the Capitol would be hunting for them. They probably already were. Their chances of escaping had just plummeted to virtually nonexistent.

     For the first time Nezumi regretted his decision to run on a whim, but that Shion had agreed to come with him, knowing what he did, was sheer recklessness. But then, Shion seemed to know what he was doing up until this point.

 _I_ hope _he knows what he’s doing. Otherwise we’re fucked._

     Karan wrung her hands, but she didn’t say anything. She and Shion wore the same determined face when they thought. It would have been amusing if this weren’t life or death.

     “Can we use the tunnels to get out?” Nezumi asked Shion.

     Shion shook his head ruefully. _Tunnels only go to the edges of the city. One side of the surface is guarded by officers, other side is the dam,_ he wrote beneath his first sentence.

     “Right,” Nezumi muttered. The word tasted bitter on his tongue.

     Karan’s forehead creased. “Where do you plan to run to?”

     Nezumi crossed his arms. “Right now, whichever direction gets us out of the city, but eventually east and then north toward the border.” He felt ill even as he spoke the words. They would need to travel more than 1,600 miles across Panem to get even close to freedom, but that was the only way to safety. It would be easier if the half the country north of Panem hadn’t been obliterated decades ago. But the only land path out of Panem lay above District 12, past the remains of 13.

     Shion smeared his previous writing on the chalkboard and scrawled over it. _We can go to 13._ Nezumi and Karan stared blankly at the words. Shion wrote again, more hurried. _There are rumors, the video the Capitol shows isn’t right. Difficult to explain. The other Avoxes think it’s not destroyed, that there are survivors._ Shion shook his hand out and readjusted his grip on the small piece of chalk to finish. _Worth a shot. If it’s dead, we can just go up from there._

     Shion turned to Nezumi for his thoughts. Nezumi didn’t know what to think. He hadn’t paid much attention to the propaganda videos the Capitol put out regarding the remains of District 13, and now he wished he had. If District 13 still existed… If there were survivors…

     It seemed farfetched. Nezumi knew well the kind of implausible dreams the hopeless crafted for themselves. A safe refuge far away from the Capitol, kept secret and hidden under the pretense of total annihilation seemed just the kind of myth that would spawn from the minds of the downtrodden.

     But Shion had a point. If they were headed that direction anyway it was worth checking out, and the area of 13 would not be under as much surveillance as one of the active districts.

 _Unless the rumor has reached Capitol ears._ Nezumi grimaced and pushed the thought away. He wouldn’t get anywhere if he kept discouraging himself at every juncture. He accepted that the circumstances weren’t ideal, that their chances were slim, and escaping was going to be difficult. But he wouldn’t let himself be paralyzed by the odds. They had to keep moving.

     Nezumi nodded at Shion. “It’s worth a shot. But we have to get over there first. It’s a long trip.”

     “I think I can help with that.” Shion and Nezumi turned to Karan. The woman had her arms crossed over her chest. “Shion, do you remember Yoming?”

     Shion straightened and raised his eyebrows in query.

     “Yoming works on the freight trains,” Karan said to Nezumi, and then to both of them, “His wife was taken by the Capitol a few years back. He doesn’t say anything out loud anymore, but… I know he still hates the Capitol for it.” Karan nibbled the edge of her thumbnail. “I think he’d be willing to do me a favor if I asked.”

     Shion furrowed his brow. _We don’t want you in danger,_ he wrote.

     Karan smiled gently at the words and laid a hand atop Shion’s head. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m stronger than you think. And craftier,” she finished with a wink. But her face grew serious at the uncertainty in Shion’s. “I’m your mother, Shion, I’m going to protect you with everything I have. I lost you once; I won’t stand by and let them take you again, not when I can do something about it.” The frown Shion fixed her with was nervous and sad. Karan chuckled and petted his head. “Give me a few minutes,” she said to them both and left the room again.

     Shion cleared the chalkboard, guilt gnawing at the edges of his expression. Nezumi pressed his lips together and said nothing.


	12. Respite

     After calling Yoming, Karan came back with a bucket of water and two washcloths for Nezumi and Shion to wipe themselves down with. She apologized that they couldn’t linger long enough to make use of her shower, but Nezumi assured her it was more than enough—anything to sponge away the stink of stale tunnel water was a blessing. She gave them their privacy while they cleaned up and changed, and by the time they were done she had packed a small bundle of apples, bread, cheese, and water into their little laundry bag, as well as a first aid kit. She topped it all off by gifting Shion a pen and notepad to take with him on the journey. If it were up to Nezumi, he’d have Karan canonized as a saint.

     She and Shion said their goodbyes in the bakery. Once they left the building it would be for the last time.

     Once again, Nezumi tried to give the mother and son the privacy they needed. He turned away and mentally catalogued their plan. Karan would bring them to Yoming’s in her van, under the pretense of visiting a friend and delivering a load of fresh bread for him to bring the Peacekeepers in the eastern districts. Karan reassured them that a 5am house call was not that uncommon for a baker and a conductor with the hours they kept, so the Capitol wouldn’t be too suspicious of the timing.

     Shion and Nezumi would hide in a box in the back of the van, and Yoming would transfer them onto the train headed for 12. They would be riding out to freedom in two-hours time. The trains in the Capitol moved at breakneck speed; if they didn’t make any stops, they would arrive in District 12 in two days.

     Movement flickered at the corner of Nezumi’s vision and he turned to watch Karan approach.

     She smiled at him, teary-eyed. “Be safe, Nezumi.” Then she wrapped him in a tight hug.

     Nezumi jolted in surprise. Karan smelled like sweets, and her embrace was fiercely affectionate and full-bodied. Nezumi felt the ache of his long dead mother in the hug, and he was both relieved and disappointed when she released him.

     “Take care of him, Nezumi,” Karan said softly.

     Nezumi averted his eyes from the searing warmth of her stare. He couldn’t help but feel out of his element. He had experienced so much turbulence in the last week alone he was surprised he was even functioning. Still, he realized as he stared down at the grout in the tiled floor that this was the most submissive he had ever been, and although he appreciated Shion taking the lead for this first leg of the journey, he didn’t want to sit back and let the waves roll over him anymore. He couldn’t stand this uncertainty or helplessness. He needed to be strong— for himself, and for Shion.

     Nezumi forced his eyes to meet Karan’s and nodded. “You don’t have to worry,” he assured her.

     Karan peered at him. “And let him take care of you too. You need each other to get through this.” She squeezed his hands. “I know you’ll succeed.”

     Shion came up beside her and smiled between them. He tapped his wrist where a watch might rest if he wore one.

     “You’re right, we should get going…” Karan released a loaded sigh. “Right… Oh!” She turned to Shion. “What about Safu? Do you want to leave a message for her?”

     Shion’s mouth tightened at the corners as he thought this over. Slowly, he shook his head, his eyes glazed with guilt. Karan touched his cheek and nodded. Nezumi wondered what she understood from Shion’s silent decision. He got the feeling from Safu that she and Shion were close friends, and yet Shion wouldn’t say goodbye to her.

     Nezumi felt the night and their freedom stretching toward morning. “It’s time to go,” he said. He felt a little guilty himself as Karan dropped her hand and shared a sad look between them.

     Karan loaded them into her van. Nezumi and Shion huddled snugly in a crate sheltered amongst the fresh breads and sweets she planned to deliver to Yoming. The ride wasn’t very long, but in the dark closed space it felt like eternity. The car glided smoothly across the cobbles of the Capitol, but Nezumi’s heart jostled in his chest. He swore he could hear its beats vibrating inside the crate. Or were they Shion’s?

     The van stopped and they heard the thump of the driver’s side door. All was silent. A new eternity began. He and Shion’s legs knocked together, shin interlaid against shin. Every breath Nezumi drew in was already warm from Shion’s exhale. Nezumi’s back and legs ached from their cramped position and the nape of his neck formed a layer of sweat, which trickled down his spine. He wanted desperately to squirm, to stretch, to burst out of the tiny wooden prison and take a gulp of fresh cool air.

     Shion’s hand touched his knee and gently patted until it found his hand. Shion gave his hand a squeeze. Nezumi assumed the gesture was supposed to be reassuring, and even though the other boy’s hand was clammy from what Nezumi guessed were his own fears and discomforts, it did help him feel less agitated.

     The door to the van popped open and they tensed.

     “This is quite the shipment,” said a male voice, which must have been Yoming. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.” Karan murmured modestly and Yoming’s tone warmed. “Well, the Peacekeepers are going to be pleased. The grain over in 12 is like sand; it’s not often they get to eat something as delicious as your bread.” He laughed at what must have been a skeptical look from Karan. “It’s true! I swear, they’ve told me that exact thing.”

     Nezumi raised an eyebrow in the dark. _This guy’s a good actor_. He was committing treason and he was still able to joke and laugh like it was any other day.

     There was silence for a moment and then the sound of wheels. Nezumi grit his teeth as the crate they hid in skidded across the floor and tilted downwards. Shion gripped his hand tight as gravity shifted him flush against the wall of the crate. They plopped down and leveled out with a dull clang, only for the crate to slant again slightly as Yoming angled a hand truck or a similar contraption to wheel them to the freight train.

     “You kids okay in there?” Yoming whispered through the lid of the crate once they were safely deposited inside. Nezumi knocked lightly after a moment to communicate they were fine. “I’m going to crack the top of the crate, but don’t get out until the train starts moving,” Yoming continued in a hush. “We’ll be making one stop at a way station just outside District 12. That’s when you two jump out of the train. One stop, one chance. I can’t help you past that. Good luck.”

     The top of the crate creaked and cracked as Yoming pried the lid open. His footsteps receded and the door to the compartment thudded shut.

     Shion let out a quavering sigh, and Nezumi found himself echoing it.

\----

     Nezumi and Shion sat across from each other, the rumble of the train lulling them into a tentative state of calmness. They hadn’t spoken much since they climbed out of the crate, probably because both still wouldn't let themselves believe they were safe. It felt like at any moment the train would screech to a halt and Peacekeepers would flood the compartment, their buzz batons held like promises at their sides.

     But slowly, as the miles slipped by and the hours ticked on, they began to relax. And Nezumi began to remember Shion had a lot to answer for. A few beams of light crept into the compartment from the cracks in the doors, and Nezumi studied Shion’s face in the low light. The white-haired boy was staring at the boxes of sweets in the corner as though weighing the propriety of breaking into one for a snack.

     “How long were you planning to escape?”

     Shion flinched out of his trance and looked at Nezumi with a dazed expression.

     “You knew exactly what to do from the moment we decided to run. That takes planning. How did you know about the tunnels?”

     Shion opened his mouth, closed it, frowned, and dug the pen and pad from his pocket. He crawled towards the center of the room where the light was best and began scribbling his answers. Nezumi scooted closer and peered at the paper, trying to read the words upside down as he wrote them. Shion paused mid-letter and glanced up at Nezumi with a beleaguered tilt to his eyebrows. Nezumi scowled and sat back to wait for him to finish. A minute later Shion handed him the pad.

_I’ve been keeping an outline of sorts for a year now. After I was taken from the Banquet they put me down in the tunnels to work. While I was there I memorized most of the paths beneath the city. I thought it might come in handy for when I did try to escape. I was thinking about it, but then they moved me to the Training Center… Which turned out to be a good thing, because I met you again._

     Nezumi pressed his lips together at the last sentence but kept reading.

_Older buildings usually have access tubes to the tunnels, so I suspected the Training Center did too. It could have been cemented over, but luckily, it wasn’t._

     Nezumi nodded slowly. “I see.”

     Shion took the paper back and flipped to the next page. _Everything went smoother than I could have hoped. It made me look pretty impressive, huh?_

     Nezumi scoffed. Shion grinned back and wrote again.

 _I didn’t start piecing together a plan until the Peacekeepers came to question me though. And then I didn’t know what would happen when we got to my mom’s._ _I just hoped…_

     Shion shrugged. There was a hint of embarrassment in the gesture. Nezumi didn’t think he had anything to be embarrassed about. It was a pretty good plan, and even if Shion hadn’t known if it would work one hundred percent, it did work, so there was nothing to be sorry for.

     “Alright. Your explanation makes sense,” Nezumi conceded. “One more question, though.” He folded his arms over his chest and glared at Shion. “Where the hell did you get these clothes? They don’t even make an attempt at fashion. These are hideous even by Capitol standards.”

     Shion tilted his head and inspected Nezumi’s outfit and then his own. They were both wearing a variation of a collared button up and slacks. Shion’s was white with gray horizontal stripes, while Nezumi had the misfortune of landing a light blue plaid number.

 _I don’t think they’re that bad,_ Shion replied.

     “Well, _obviously_. These are your clothes after all. What’s messing me up is that you actually wore these in public. I’m surprised you weren’t hunted down and imprisoned by the fashion police. The Capitol has those, doesn’t it?”

     Shion tipped his chin and smiled indulgently. _Has anyone ever told you your jokes aren’t funny?_

     Nezumi snorted. “This coming from the guy whose one and only joke was about being mute.”

     Shion scrunched his face and shoulders in a sign of concession. He rose and pulled the loaf of bread from the laundry bag in the corner, ripping it in half and handing Nezumi one end.

     Nezumi munched on the bread leisurely, closing his eyes to better savor its rich taste. Karan’s list of admirable traits kept growing and growing. The Capitol didn’t deserve her. Nezumi turned to Shion to reiterate his compliments to his mom, but paused.

     Shion had popped a small piece of bread into his mouth and was chewing with a slowness and concentration that made Nezumi want to hold his breath, even if he wasn’t sure of the reason. After a few measured chews, Shion stopped and pressed a finger into his mouth to feel around. Nezumi didn’t mean to stare, but he couldn’t help but be mesmerized at this odd ritual.

     Shion noticed. He caught Nezumi’s look and immediately pulled his finger out of his mouth and turned away. Nezumi dropped his gaze and kept it glued to the floor until he finished his portion. He only looked up again when the notepad appeared under his nose.

_You probably want to know… It’s to make sure the food’s chewed enough. I don’t really like people seeing that side of me…_

     Nezumi shrugged and cleared his throat. “It’s not like you can help it. You gotta eat. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

     Shion still looked pretty embarrassed though and Nezumi didn’t think he could convince him to feel otherwise.

\----

     There wasn’t much to do when night fell. Shion couldn’t write in the dark and even if he could Nezumi wouldn’t be able to read his responses. Nezumi attempted to carry on a one-sided conversation every once in a while when the silence stretched on too long, but that grew tiring.

 _Well, this is fun._ Nezumi sighed. _Huh… At least now I can sigh whenever I want._ He sighed again just for the heck of it, and smirked in spite of himself.

     Shion moved in the dark and Nezumi listened. They had resumed their positions across from each other, but from the sound of it, Shion was inching his way toward him. Nezumi felt a hand touch the tip of his shoe and directed Shion to move about a foot to his left. Shion settled in beside him against the wall of car and they sat together for a few seconds before Nezumi received a tap on his shoulder.

     Nezumi hummed a noise of lazy acknowledgement—then sat bolt upright when Shion took his hand and pulled it into his lap.

     “What?” Nezumi asked aloud. His insides squirmed at the blind skin-to-skin contact, but he tried to give Shion the benefit of the doubt and didn’t pull his hand away like his gut reaction wanted him to.

     Shion flattened Nezumi’s hand, palm up, against his knee and scribbled his finger across it.

     Nezumi furrowed his brow. “I don’t…” he started, but paused as Shion began drawing a pattern with his finger. A line, then another line, connected at the top of the first at an angle, then a smaller line bridging the two. Nezumi concentrated as Shion repeated the pattern on his hand.

     “A?” he said after Shion had finished. Shion made a small, excited noise and squeezed Nezumi’s hand in his own. Nezumi smiled. “I see what you’re getting at. Draw another and see if I can guess it.”

     Nezumi guessed the next few right, only stumbling once between whether a letter was P or D. It was a time consuming way of communicating, and Shion’s answers were even more limited than they were before, but it wasn’t like they had anything better to do, and Nezumi had to admit, it was a fun game once he got the hang of it.

     They played a question game until they tired of writing and guessing, respectively, and settled into sleepy quietude. Nezumi listened to the rumble of the train. It sounded hypnotic after a point, and he felt himself grow drowsy.

     Shion began to hum beside him. The melody was tentative and faltered in places, but an itch of recognition nagged at Nezumi.

     “Is that the nursery rhyme I sang at my interview?”

     Shion stopped humming. “Mmhm.”

     Nezumi wrinkled his nose. “Blast from the past…” he muttered. “I never liked that song, but I thought the Capitol might.”

     Shion wrote the letter Y on Nezumi’s palm.

     Nezumi shrugged a shoulder. “The melody is cute. The Capitol likes cute. I don’t like it for the exact same reason.”

     Shion was still a moment before pressing his finger to Nezumi’s palm again. Nezumi concentrated on the letters. The first was S… Shion finished. A pause and then he added a question mark to the end, for politeness, Nezumi imagined.

_Sing?_

     Nezumi wet his lips. It’d been a while since he sang, and he hardly ever sang for anyone but himself. Even singing at the interview was strategy to improve his standing. _But what the hell?_

     “Any requests? Although we probably don’t listen to the same music.”

     Shion scoffed. _7 song_ , he drew on Nezumi’s hand.

     “Hmm… Alright… I think I know one that would suit.” Nezumi cleared his throat. “This is called ‘In the Beech Forest.’ ” He took a deep breath and began to sing.

 

_On a distant mountaintop_

_snow melts into a stream_

_and turns green in the beech forest._

_The village is covered in flowers now._

_Young maidens, lovelier than the flowers,_

_pledge their love in the beech forest._

_Young one,_

_soak your feet in the green water,_

_run like the deer, and kiss the maiden's hair before the flowers wilt._

     Shion had laid his head on Nezumi’s shoulder during the first verse, and by the end he was fast asleep by the sound of his breathing. Nezumi smiled softly, leaned his head back against the compartment wall, and tried to find sleep as well.


	13. Rainstorm

     Nezumi crawled through blackness. His breaths came in gasps. His heart rapped against his ribs so hard it sent a shooting pain through his chest. He had no idea where he was or how he arrived there. The only thing he knew was the slice of cold, damp rock under his knees and palms. He kept his head down as he dragged his body through the dark, flinching at the sharp caress of rocks against his face and sides.

     His hand slid forward and met something soft and squishy. Nezumi froze and drew his eyes from the floor. A face stared back at him, eyes large and frightened in the eerie glow of the luminescent mushrooms.

     “Kal?” Nezumi breathed.

     Fissure loomed behind them, club raised and determination etched into his stony face. Nezumi threw up his arms and opened his mouth to shout as the club fell with a terrible crash _._

     Nezumi bolted upright as lightening lit the inside of the train car. Thunder rumbled outside, chasing every bolt with an irritable crack. Shion crouched by the door. He had pulled it partially open, and was staring out at the sluicing rain.

     He was so fixated on the storm, it didn’t seem he noticed Nezumi’s nightmare. Nezumi shook his head and tried to dislodge Kal’s frightened face from his mind. He forced his ears to absorb the sound of rain and thunder so the echo of the final blow would be overwritten.

     Carefully, Nezumi moved across the compartment. Shion glanced over as he came up beside him and his face went from contemplative to purposeful. He pulled his pad out of his pocket and showed it to Nezumi.

_We entered District 12 a few miles back._

     If they had entered 12, then it wouldn’t be long before the train would make its scheduled stop and they their escape.

     A peal of thunder shook the sky, louder and more furious than any before. Their compartment bucked as the train braked suddenly, sending Nezumi, Shion, and several of the pastry boxes skidding across the floor. The train shrieked along the rain slickened tracks for a full minute before finally coming to a stop.

     The door to the car had been thrown wide open by the force. A spasm of fear writhed in Nezumi’s stomach as his and Shion’s eyes met. They didn’t move for a moment, expecting to hear the thump of boots interspersed between the sounds of the storm. But there was nothing. The world outside was a grey-green watercolor, split by an occasional bolt of lightning.

     Nezumi slunk back to the open door, but there were no enemies, only wreckage. Felled trees lay along the tracks: massive, ancient, and blackened by bad luck.

     “I think it was the storm,” he shouted over the wind. “Something probably fell on the tracks.”

     Shion nodded and swiped his dampened bangs out of his eyes. He came to stand at Nezumi’s side, face drawn and hands curled tightly around his notepad.

 _If a tree fell on the tracks, then someone will come to clear it._ The thought sent a jolt of panic skittering up Nezumi’s throat. The train was expected; Yoming would have to call for help. Even if he didn’t, District 12 would eventually contact him and offer it, and he couldn’t very well refuse without seeming suspicious. And why would he jeopardize himself for a couple of strangers he could easily claim were stowaways?

_We’re sitting ducks._

     “We have to jump out.”

     Shion mashed his lips together and looked up at the sky, then down at the broken trees and branches around them. His expression indicated that he had arrived at a similar conclusion. Shion sat down, scooted himself to the edge of the door, and dropped into the muddy grass with the same nonchalance with which he faced plummeting into the sewer tunnels. A half smile flitted across Nezumi’s lips. For a Capitol citizen, Shion seemed to have a knack for taking things in stride.

Nezumi searched through the upturned boxes on the floor and pulled out the pack Karan had made up for them. He slung it over his shoulder and hopped out of the train.

     Shion tucked his notepad in his pocket to keep it as best he could from becoming a sodden wad. He gestured for Nezumi to lead the way. Nezumi glanced around, trying to find his bearings. They should be heading northeast. He oriented their location in his mind’s compass and then forged ahead, Shion following closely.

     “We can’t get far in this storm,” Nezumi called over his shoulder. “We need to find shelter and wait it out.”

     The weather was horrendous. Nezumi couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced a rainstorm this ferocious, and he doubted a sheltered Capitol citizen had either. The wind was so brutal Nezumi felt for a moment he was back in the arena, fighting through the Gamemakers’ cruelty for life itself.

     Eventually, they found an outcropping of rocks among the trees, and one section where the rocks created an overhang large enough for two runaways to shelter under with a bit of room to spare.

     Shion plopped onto the dirt and shivered in his wet clothes. The temperature wasn’t cold enough to threaten hypothermia, but just cool enough that it was uncomfortable to be wet in. Nezumi cast a look at the black skies and decided it would be safe enough to attempt a fire. No one should be near enough to discover them, and besides, the weather was bad enough to mask the light.

     He collected some twigs and branches, doing his best to find drier ones hidden close to the rock face or beneath felled trees. Shion watched dubiously as Nezumi constructed a decent tepee of the kindling and began trying to light it with the friction of stick against rock. But there was a strain of hope in Shion’s eyes despite his doubt, and Nezumi was determined to deliver.

     Nezumi smirked as a small fire flared to life under his hands. He sat back and nodded his head to it. “Thank the Capitol for making me practice my survival skills, eh?”

     Shion snorted and graced Nezumi with a fleeting congratulatory smile. Nezumi started on warming up his hands, and setting Shion’s notepad out to dry. He wouldn’t be writing anything tonight, that was for certain.

     Shion returned to watching the storm. He seemed to have an unusual fascination with it. He leaned toward every lightening bolt and perked at every thunderclap.

     Nezumi opened his mouth to comment, but Shion stood abruptly. His face looked so intense, for a moment Nezumi worried he sensed some kind of danger. But then Shion marched out into the rain, stood boldly before the thunder and lightening, and screamed. Nezumi sat frozen, watching as Shion emptied his lungs to the heavens and then drew in another breath to loose a second shout against the gales.

     Shion’s hands were fisted at his sides, legs hip width apart, face determined. Nezumi had never seen someone look so angry and so free at the same time. Shion screamed until his voice gave way to coughing. Only then did his hands unfurl at his sides and his shoulders drop. He looked back, and Nezumi’s heart sputtered.

     Shion was grinning. The smile was so sudden and dazzling that Nezumi felt confused in the face of it. Shion strode back to the shelter of the overhang and stood before Nezumi, sopping wet and grinning like a fool.

     “You’re insane.” Nezumi tried to be teasing and dismissive, but his tone sounded awed in spite of his intentions.

     Shion laughed. He looked so pleased with himself, Nezumi couldn’t help but split into a smile too. A mischievous light flashed in Shion’s eye, and Nezumi flinched as Shion’s cold hands wrapped around his wrists and tugged at him to stand.

     “Whoa! Hey, no, absolutely not!”

     Nezumi tried to use his weight to keep himself seated, but Shion was unexpectedly strong. Nezumi ended up relenting in order to save his arms dislocation. Shion released his one arm and slipped his hand into Nezumi’s, pulling him along into the rain.

     With his free arm, Shion gestured grandly at the sky. Nezumi made an exasperated noise.

     “Shion,” he started, glancing uneasily at his companion. Shion wasn’t beaming anymore, but his mouth still held laughter in the corners, and his eyes sparkled with a fevered light.

     “…Okay, fine. I’ll do it _once_.”

     Shion’s grin returned, brighter than before, it seemed, because he had won against Nezumi’s reticence. Shion drew in a theatrical breath and Nezumi followed suit and together they screamed. When he finished, Nezumi felt lightheaded, and stupidly light hearted. He laughed at himself for how silly this all was, and for how good it felt.

     Everything was suddenly new: the rain’s soft pecks, the cacophony of the elements, the ecstatic thump of his heart. Nezumi couldn’t remember the last time he felt so powerful or fearless. The Capitol was thousands of miles away, and, for the moment, not a single responsibility weighed on him. No one to protect, no one to woo, no threats hanging over his head.

     For the first time in his life, he felt free.

     Shion’s fingers tightened around his and Nezumi turned to him. His bangs were flattened and smeared against his forehead like white paint. Water dripped off his nose and chin like a waterfall. Nezumi had never seen anyone look so happy, and ridiculous, and beautiful, and _alive_.

     Nezumi cupped the back of Shion’s neck with his free hand and pulled his mouth to his. Shion melted seamlessly into the kiss, as though they had done this a thousand times before. Their mouths moved gently at first. Then Shion’s hands found Nezumi’s waist and Nezumi’s hands found the collar of Shion’s shirt and everything became a little fuzzy. Nezumi swore he could hear his heart in his ears. The air around him vibrated.

     Nezumi pulled back abruptly. Shion blinked at him in confusion, but Nezumi’s eyes were fixed on the sky. The air _was_ humming. With a sickening sinking feeling, Nezumi realized that the thumping in his ears wasn’t his heartbeat, or even the storm.

     It was the sound of engines.

     They bolted for the overhang. Nezumi stomped the fire out as quickly as he could, cursing himself for making it. _It’s Hunger Games 101: don’t build a fire at night unless you want to die!_

     Shion huddled as far back as he could against the rock face, and when Nezumi stooped to join him, he gripped Nezumi’s hand hard enough to hurt.

     The hovercraft was close enough now to see it, blacker than the clouds and trailing a faint blue pulse. A bolt of lightening hit the exterior but the hovercraft continued unconcerned. Its searchlights sliced through the rain to comb the forest floor.

     Shion shivered beside him, and Nezumi felt his body grow cold as the hovercraft crept closer. The lights skimmed the lip of the overhang. He and Shion pressed themselves against the rock until their skulls felt they would crack. The light probed, and stretched, reaching the remains of his fire. Nezumi felt ill.

     The light swept past. The hovercraft flew on. Shion drew in a ragged breath and Nezumi released the one he was holding.


	14. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens in this chapter, and therefore it is long. I would say it's a present for taking so long to update, but I don't flatter myself that anyone's hanging on the story's every update xD

     The storm abated the next morning. Shion and Nezumi moved swiftly through the underbrush, careful not to let the splintered logs and broken branches trip them up. Their pant legs grew sodden and heavy from tramping through puddles, but they ran on without a word. There were worse things on the horizon if they didn’t reach District 13 before the hovercraft made its second sweep.

     The slightest groan from the trees or crackle underfoot sent their hearts skittering. But the skies remained clear, and birdsong flowed through the forest, unalarmed. After the first hour without incident, the anxiety buzzing in Nezumi’s chest began to fade. Still, he kept his ears strained and his eyes lifted frequently to scour the sky. He knew Shion was doing the same.

     Nezumi also knew that Shion’s gaze was just as often directed at him. He felt it prickling at the back of his neck, and it sent his stomach into nervous spasms. He pretended ignorance for the moment. Nezumi didn’t want to have a discussion about last night until he had his thoughts sorted, and fortunately Shion wouldn’t be able to bring the topic up until they stopped.

     Eventually though, they did have to stop. They wandered until they found a thin river wedged between a row of trees and decided to take a moment’s respite to hydrate. Nezumi looked about them, trying to approximate how far they were into District 12, and how far they had to go to breach 13.

     “I think we’re close,” Nezumi said, mostly to himself. He had very little idea, though, if it were true, since Panem topography wasn’t a skill offered at the Training Center. Forest navigation, though, he was well versed in, and he at least knew they were headed in the right direction.

     Shion nodded at his words without a trace of worry, which reassured him. Shion had proved unexpectedly resourceful since they’d set out. He had memorized the sewer tunnels in the Capitol; Nezumi wouldn’t be surprised if he had a map of Panem stored in his head as well.

     Nezumi dropped the pack from his shoulder and took out the water. He took two pulls from the canteen and handed it to Shion. Shion waited as long as it took for Nezumi to settle against the tree trunk beside him before pulling out his notepad. It took him a few tries to get the pen to work on the roughened pages.

_Can we talk about last night?_

     Nezumi glanced at the words. “The hovercraft?” He took the canteen from Shion and shoved it back into the bag. “It’s a bad sign. I don’t think it’s a long shot to say the Capitol suspects we hitched a ride on that train. Which means they’ll be combing the area.”

     Shion shifted. _Not that. The kiss._

     “Oh. That.”

     Shion’s face pinched at his careless tone. Nezumi’s chest tightened in shame, but he kept his face neutral. _I’m a bastard, Shion. Didn’t you realize?_ But it didn’t seem that Shion did, because he looked sad and uncomfortable.

     Nezumi felt a niggling sense of annoyance vying to overtake the shame in his chest. He hated the feeling and wanted to blame Shion for it, but he knew it wasn’t Shion’s fault.

     Nezumi turned his face aside and studied a mockingjay that had just perched on a nearby tree. It cocked its head at him, as if turning an ear toward their conversation. Nezumi felt paranoia scratch at his brain. The Capitol had stopped using muttations to eavesdrop decades ago, but knowing mockingjays had the ability to parrot everything he said never sat easy with him. It was hard enough to talk about feelings; he didn’t need the damned things broadcasting his fumbling to the world.

     “I don’t regret it,” Nezumi finally managed, still in a cool, unhurried tone.

     He didn’t know what Shion’s response was. He had averted his face explicitly to avoid it. Shion was no doubt relieved—possibly ecstatic—at his admission, and that worried Nezumi.

     “But I don’t know if it was the right thing to do,” he added, knowing this would temper Shion’s hope enough to make it easier to face him. Nezumi drew in a breath and turned back.

     Shion’s eyes were narrowed and searching. His mouth puckered and pulled down at the corners. Shion did not look ecstatic—he looked irritated. His dark eyes bored into Nezumi’s until Nezumi felt a gulp building at the back of his throat.

 _You’re afraid,_ Shion wrote.

     The words burned. Nezumi flinched when he read them. The heat in Shion’s expression cooled when he saw Nezumi’s shock, but his frown grew deeper.

     Shion sighed. _I won’t pretend to know exactly what you’re feeling, but you don’t have to punish yourself, Nezumi._

     Nezumi swallowed. _I should have known_. When he thought about it, it didn’t come as a surprise. Shion had been beside him these last few weeks and always, inexplicably, realized when he was putting up a front.

     Shion barely knew him, and yet he understood much more about Nezumi than anyone had reason to. Why should it come as a shock that Shion saw the fears that weighed on his mind?

     He was terrified of being responsible for another person. He always had been, but in the last year the dread had pressed an ever-present bruise onto his conscience. Rico and Kal were testaments to how incapable he was of protecting those close to him. He had already gotten Shion hurt once, and that was when Shion was a virtual stranger. Nezumi didn’t want to find out how badly he would screw up if he and Shion attempted a relationship.

     Shion took up his pen with a second flash of annoyance. _You have nothing to blame yourself for, regarding me or anything else. I told you that what happened to me wasn’t your fault, and I don’t regret saying what I did._

     Nezumi felt a scowl threatening as he read the words. He tried to interject, but Shion made an indignant noise and pulled the notepad away from his prying eyes. He flipped the page and scribbled angrily: _Don’t interrupt me! Writing is hard enough!_

     An edge of bitterness crept into Shion’s forehead as he withdrew the notepad and continued to write. Nezumi bit his lip and held his tongue. Shion was usually so even-tempered and transparent that Nezumi forgot that the self-expression he took for granted was for Shion a race to get a word in edgewise.

     Not to mention it must be hell on his hand to try to write so much so quickly. But even aggravated and stressed, Shion would not sacrifice accuracy of emotion for shorter or ungrammatical sentences. Nezumi had no choice but sit in uneasy silence or risk disrespecting him again.

     Shion huffed when he finished slashing his words onto the pad.

_If you’re afraid of hurting me, don’t be. I don’t need to be protected. I think I’ve proven I’m stronger than I look. And **I** don’t regret kissing you either. It felt right to **me**_ **.**

     He had traced over the “I” and “me” with such intensity that the pen punched a hole through the paper.

     Nezumi felt something inside him recoil at the bald admission. He tried to escape the panic by dropping Shion’s gaze and shaking his head. “Look, the truth is, I kissed you because I felt like it. I wasn’t really thinking about the reason behind it.”

 _Think about it now_ , Shion wrote fiercely.

     A smile fought its way onto Nezumi’s face. Shion pursed his lips, ruffled more still at Nezumi’s apparent flippancy. But Nezumi _didn’t_ treat the matter lightly. He considered their situation with the utmost seriousness, and he felt real fear at the prospect of them becoming closer. But Shion’s bluntness was refreshing, and Nezumi couldn’t help but find his petulance charming.

 _Oh god._ Nezumi smothered the smile with his hand. His heart beat double time—whether from nerves, or excitement, or fear, he couldn’t decide. He only knew that it was uncomfortable.

     Nezumi coughed and dropped his hand from his mouth. He begged his emotions to coalesce into something he could act on, but they swirled about in his chest with no discernable direction.

     Shion raised his eyebrows. He gnawed his lip and dropped his head to write. _I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just... I was really happy when you kissed me. Yesterday was the first time I felt alive in a long time._

     Shion took a moment to shake out his hand. He stared at Nezumi, watching how he absorbed the words. Nezumi knew he probably looked exactly as he felt: utterly out of his depth. He should be sorting his own feelings and responding in kind, for the sake of ending this _thing_ as soon as possible, at the very least. But he couldn’t _think_ —not when this was the topic, not with Shion’s eyes demanding a sincere answer.

     Nezumi didn’t have a chance to spy this time; Shion kept the notepad closely guarded when he lifted it to continue. The soft, thoughtful look on Shion’s face, though, had Nezumi’s head pounding. He knew what the next words would be. He wanted to run, but his body felt heavy. He was a man poised on the edge of cliff, knowing he was dangerously close to the endless plunge, but mesmerized by the silken possibility of it.

_I like you, Nezumi. I like being with you, and I thought maybe you felt the same way…_

     Nezumi squeezed his eyes shut, but the words burned beneath his eyelids. He opened them again to find Shion still staring at him—scorchingly, heartbreakingly—unashamed.

 _If last night was just_ — Shion paused and crossed the line out. _If you don’t feel the same way, then we can just leave it here. I don’t want to force you to say or do anything you don’t feel._

     Shion laid a hand over his. A sign of mercy that made Nezumi feel small and deficient.

     “I hate you.”

     Shion had just enough time to look taken aback before Nezumi kissed him full on the mouth. A startled noise escaped Shion’s throat, which was victory enough for Nezumi to feel master of his emotions again.

     Nezumi drew back. “I don’t hate you,” he said gruffly. He felt stupid that after minutes of being tongued tied something so childish slipped out, and stupider still that pride necessitated he retract it. “I can’t be—you, okay? It might be easy for you to say things like that, but I can’t. I can’t explain my reasons right now. But I can promise that you aren’t forcing me to do anything I don’t already want to do.”

     Shion nodded, more than satisfied with that answer for the present.

\----

     Nezumi stared into the woods. After traveling a few more hours, he and Shion had found a small cave and decided to make camp there for the night. The sun had not yet set. Its rays haloed the trees and cast a hazy glow over the dirt. Dusk was Nezumi’s favorite time of day, but he barely noticed the beauty or quietude of it now.

     Shion was fast asleep a hand span away. He’d kept up well on their trek. He never once complained or asked to take a break, but he was no district kid. Even as an Avox, Shion had led a relatively inactive life in the Capitol. He wasn’t used to hunger and thirst or strenuous activity, and that became evident whenever they ended their day of running and Shion inhaled his small ration and immediately passed out.

     Nezumi envied him. Tonight he even resented Shion for his untroubled sleep. How could he sleep so soundly when Nezumi still had not recovered from their earlier conversation? Nezumi hugged his knees and rested his head atop them.

 _I like you, Nezumi._ He turned the words over in his head. How had they arrived here?

     He peered at Shion. His hair glittered in the fading light, silvery and insubstantial as dandelion fluff. He looked young and unburdened, his head propped up on the crook of his bent arm.

_I like being with you, and I thought maybe you felt the same way._

     Nezumi sat up and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was pointless to try to play the ignorant victim. He knew how they’d gotten here.

     The night they’d spoken at the banquet the threads of connection had begun to tighten around them. He left Shion feeling that even though the Capitol on the whole was full of heartless parasites, that there might be a few good people within its walls. He had thought on that conversation many times, remembering the fire in Shion’s eyes, ears ringing with the passionate desperation of his words. Even if Shion was naïve and privileged, Nezumi felt a grudging respect for his boldness.

     Then Shion was just curiosity. The one halfway decent memory he had from his hellish tour in the Hunger Games. He never expected to see Shion again, and he would have been okay with that. It would have been enough to know that somewhere in the Capitol there was someone who gave a shit, even if he didn’t do anything about it.

 _But Shion_ did _do something about it_ , his mind whispered. _Remember?_

     Shion saved his life. Shion had been nothing but a modest baker’s son with barely any money to his name—and he gave all he had to send Nezumi a first aid kit. Nezumi still couldn’t understand it. The districts should have meant nothing to Shion; they didn’t affect his life. Nezumi should have been nothing to him but another face in an endless stream of unfortunates. But Shion saw something in Nezumi that he wanted to preserve. He wanted it so much that he sacrificed his future to do it.

     Nezumi never forgot it. The world had turned its back on him, and, broken, bleeding, and utterly alone, Nezumi had been ready to stop fighting. But Shion had said, _Don’t_ , and offered him a second chance. No one had ever done that for him. Did Shion even know how deep that debt went?

     Nezumi studied the smudge on Shion’s cheek. He remembered Shion had confessed it was a birthmark turned snake tattoo. Nezumi’s eyes dropped to the strip of pink along his neck, tracing the curve to where it slipped beyond the collar of his shirt.

     He forced his gaze back up. Shion slept on, innocent and artless as a fawn.

     From the first night he returned to the Capitol his defenses had been low around Shion. Nezumi knew it was dangerous, even while he confided in him and allowed him to get close enough to see his frayed edges. But he had reserved all his caution for the Capitol; he never once considered the danger of Shion’s affections, and their affect on himself.

     Shion was too easy to trust. _Shion_ was too trusting. Everything about him was natural and straightforward when everything in his experience these last few months should have striped him raw. Shion was gentle, but firm; never pitied himself but was quick to shed tears for others; intelligent, but so even-tempered and humble it took you unawares. In a world of actors and spectacles, Shion remained unerringly true. Nezumi had never known anyone like him, and if he were being honest with himself…

     When he looked at Shion, he saw the freedom he always longed for. That’s why he let Shion close. That’s why he kissed him. Shion held a quiet ferocity that resonated with Nezumi’s wild spirit. He made him feel reckless and restless, and although Nezumi spent half his time annoyed with and confused by Shion, the other half he felt so comfortable he had to stop himself from sharing too much.

     It terrified him, but at the same time… He just wanted to rest, to lower the walls and put down the load bearing down on his shoulders, if only for a moment. Nezumi knew that Shion would treat him gently if he left himself open to the possibility.

     Nezumi ran his fingers through his hair. _But I can’t just…_ say _it. There’s no way in the hell I can say stuff like this out loud._ Nezumi knew it was immature to hold back from embarrassment, but his pride would not step aside and allow that last barrier to fall. He had spent too much time and effort locking people out; it would take some doing to figure out how to let someone in, and even longer for him to let himself out.

     The sun had set while he wrestled with his thoughts, and everything was gray and fuzzy around the edges. Nezumi’s gaze dropped to Shion again. His notepad and pen laid beside his head, ready to be taken up the moment he awoke.

 _Maybe…_ Nezumi bit his lip. He picked up the notepad and flipped it open to a blank page. _Maybe if I write it._ Shion had no trouble when he wrote about his feelings. He made it look effortless. He took up the pen and began working his thoughts into something understandable.

     Nezumi stared at the finished product. A flush of mortification crept up the back of his neck as he reread his words. _How does Shion_ do _this?_

     He hastily tore the page out and crumpled it into a tight ball. He wished for a fire so he could erase all trace of it, but he would not make that mistake again. He settled for stuffing it into the mud underneath a rock.

\----

     The next morning Shion smiled. He didn’t _stop_ smiling. Every time Nezumi caught a glimpse of Shion out of the corner of his eye, or glanced his way, a light smile played over the other boy’s face. It was the proud expression of someone who had just won something.

     Nezumi avoided Shion’s affectionate gaze, and certainly did not think of the sentimental ramblings he had stashed under a rock not ten feet away. Instead he made a show of going through their bag for a suitable breakfast. He pulled out a bit of cheese and an apple and shoved the second at Shion.

     “Here,” he said, and forced himself to look Shion in the eye. Shion nodded in thanks and took the apple, holding it almost shyly to his chest. Nezumi was caught by the glitter in Shion’s eyes. They were brown, he was certain, and yet, with the way the light hit them at that moment, the color seemed almost purple.

     Nezumi’s face grew hot and he turned abruptly away. _I’m in trouble._ Two kisses and his defenses were already crumbling. He never imagined he’d be this easy.

     “We should keep moving,” Nezumi said when they’d finished, and stood.

     Shion rose too, chucking the apple core and slipping his notepad into his pocket. He grinned with the same wild abandon that he had last night.

     “Stay close.” Nezumi threw the pack he was holding at Shion. Shion caught the bag clumsily, but his smile grew a few degrees regardless.

     They walked until they entered a break in the trees. The small meadow glistened in the sunlight, bright with green grass and the hum of the morning. A few sparrows pecked in the dirt, but bolted into the brush when they sensed Nezumi and Shion’s approach. The space radiated tranquility.

     “What are you going to do when we get to District 13?”

     Shion jogged up beside him, a question in his eyes.

     Nezumi rephrased. “If we get to District 13—and if your intel is correct, and it’s somehow not a radioactive pile of rubble—what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”

     Shion lolled his head to the side in consideration. He screwed his face up and shrugged.

     “We turned traitors, ran halfway across the country to a district we’re not even sure exists, and you haven’t thought about what you’re going to do when you get there? Really?”

     Shion snorted and shrugged again. Then, upon second thought, he met his hands against his cheek and mimed silent snores.

     It was Nezumi’s turn to snort. Although, wanting a good night’s sleep wasn’t that ridiculous a desire.

     “I know what I’m going to do,” Nezumi said grimly and looked Shion dead in the face. “Change out of these ridiculous clothes.”

     “Pft.” Shion rolled his eyes and shook his head. Nezumi smirked.

     Something zipped by Shion’s shoulder, emitting a keen buzz as it passed. Nezumi tilted his head toward the noise, without being fully conscious of why. The sound was familiar. Wing beats, but not a bird. A bug of some sort.

     Another buzz, and Shion waved idly to clear the air. Nezumi halted mid-step.

     “Shion, stop!”

     Shion froze, hand outstretched, and in the same moment, a massive wasp flew out of the nearest tree and landed on the palm of Shion’s hand. In the mid-morning heat, Nezumi went cold.

     Tracker jacker. Its golden body was a full finger length long and tapered to a needle thin barb at the end.

     Shion’s body sang with tension as the wasp crawled to the tip of his finger. He was trying his best not to move or even tremble, but his eyes were wide and dark with terror.

     Now that they stood still, the buzzing was so loud Nezumi didn’t know how they hadn’t heard it farther back. From the zips and drones around them, there was more than one nest. Nezumi eyed the nearest tree, and, sure enough, he spotted the horn of a hive peeking out amongst the highest branches.

     Nezumi’s heart pounded. He knew well what a Tracker jacker could do to a person. A single sting triggered powerful hallucinations; if you were unfortunate enough to disturb a full hive, you were dead.

     Nezumi prayed that the wasp would fly off after preening, but the Tracker jacker stayed on Shion’s fingers, its antennae twitching. _The apple_ , he realized, his stomach bottoming out. Bees were attracted to sweetness.

     A second golden wasp emerged from the grass and streaked toward Shion.

     Nezumi couldn’t blame him. One Tracker jacker was terrifying enough, and few people were brave enough to remain motionless when another large wasp hurtled toward their face. Shion actually reacted better than anyone could have expected, squeezing his eyes shut and releasing a low whimper. But he flinched, and for a mutt bred for death, that was enough.

     The Tracker jacker on Shion’s hand stung. Shion yelped, and Nezumi did the only thing he could do: He grabbed Shion’s arm and yelled at him to cover his head and run.

     An angry buzz rose behind them as the surrounding Tracker jackers awakened. Nezumi knew he had to get the barb out of Shion’s finger, that the longer it was left in the more venom it would pump into the bloodstream, and the more easily the other Tracker jackers could follow, led as they were by the alarm pheromone it released. But the forest stretched on with nowhere to duck or hide.

     Nezumi felt an agonizing stab in his back and cursed. He dragged on Shion’s arm and made a decision to run headlong through the thick brush. The brambles and rough bark raked against their bodies, tearing jagged lines in their faces and limbs. They were shallow prices to pay.

     The hum behind them spiked in irritation, and when they forced their way out of the first line of brush, the noise was quieter. Nezumi pivoted sharply to the right and plunged them into another line of shrubs, dislodging any stragglers that managed to follow through the first. They smashed through this too and ran full pelt again.

     Nezumi’s vision swam. He couldn’t hear the buzzing behind them anymore, but then he realized that he couldn’t hear anything. The forest blurred around him. Was he even still running?

     Shion tripped and fell, yanking Nezumi down next to him. Sound came crashing back into his ears. Nezumi coughed, throat dry and back aching. _Back_.

     Nezumi pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached behind him, his fingers fumbling. He found the stinger and did his best to press and scrape it from his flesh, so as not to squeeze more venom into the wound. It was just the one stinger, thankfully. Even still, Nezumi felt groggy and numb.

     Shion lay prone in the dirt where he fell. Nezumi hastily extracted the first barb from Shion’s finger, and then searched him for others. He found two more at the nape of his neck and his shoulder. Three stings. Dread pooled in the pit of Nezumi’s stomach.

     Nezumi pushed Shion over. He combed his chest and legs, but found no more stingers.

     “Shion?”

     Shion’s breathing was rapid, his pupils dilated.

     “Shion, whatever you’re seeing or hearing, it’s not real. Look at me.” Nezumi touched his cheek. Shion flinched. “Look at me,” Nezumi repeated, turning Shion’s face gently towards his own. Shion drew in a shaky breath, and a little of the dazed terror retreated. He seemed to come back to himself for a moment.

     Shion snatched Nezumi’s hand and gripped hard enough that his nails dug into the flesh. Nezumi winced, but allowed it.

     “That’s it,” Nezumi coaxed. “Keep fighting. Don’t give up.”

     Shion’s breathing hitched and the panic flooded back into his face. He squeezed his eyes shut. An anguished noise pushed past his lips.

     “He’s dying.”

     Nezumi startled so badly he rocked backwards. Rico was standing next to him, eyes innocently wide and unconcerned.

     “Fuck.” Nezumi exhaled in a rush.

     Rico’s brows arched. “Potty mouth.” He glanced down at Shion and scowled. The expression looked wrong on his young features. “Fine, let him die. You let everyone else die, so it’s only fair.” He turned and scaled a tree with the ease of a lizard, disappearing into the dark snarl of branches.

     Nezumi gripped the sides of his head and pressed, trying to force his brain to function properly. It was just one sting. He needed to keep it together. Shion needed his help. He drew in three short, heavy breaths and stood.

     The forest warped and spun as he walked, but he forced himself in as straight a line as possible. He didn’t stray too far from Shion, afraid that the hallucinations might lead Shion to get up and wander off. Or worse. Nezumi tried not to think about worse.

     There was a plant they used in 7 that could help draw the venom of Tracker jacker stings out. It also reduced swelling. If he could just find some. He searched the forest floor desperately, but none of the plants looked familiar. They were all the wrong shape and color, and Nezumi couldn’t figure out if their wrongness was real or hallucinated. Nezumi cursed. Pressure built in his chest as he thought of Shion lying alone and in pain as he walked farther and farther away from him.

     Nezumi scoured the surrounding area one more time and then stumbled his way back to Shion. He collapsed at Shion’s side.

     “I’m sorry. I can’t—” Nezumi clenched his jaw and swallowed impotently. “I’ll find a way to help you. I promise. Just—don’t die on me. Keep fighting. _Please._ ”

     Shion’s breaths had evened out, but his dark eyes were dull. Nezumi took him by the hand and dropped his head.

     Voices. Nezumi ignored them at first, thinking they were a projection of his delirious mind. But then he heard a twig snap, a flock of birds flap noisily into the air, a lighthearted laugh. Nezumi raised his head and listened harder. It sounded like a group of men.

_Peacekeepers._

     Nezumi’s head swung around, but there was no place for them to hide, and Shion didn’t look like he was in any condition to escape. Nezumi had to make a decision: Save himself or stay with Shion and risk capture. If this were the Hunger Games, it would be no choice at all.

     Nezumi stayed. He grabbed the biggest rock he could find within arms length and held it tight. He would not go easily.

     He listened as the men’s voices came closer, tensed as they came into view, weaving through the trees, unaware for the moment of him and Shion.

     They were not Peacekeepers. Or at least, they weren’t in Peacekeeper uniforms. The members of the party had the roughened look of the Districts, but they lacked the underfed and fearful bearing of those raised under the Capitol’s heel. And they had guns at their waists, not batons.

 _District 13?_ They had been close to the border between 12 and 13 before the swarm. Could they have made it across?

     Nezumi’s brain told him he was seeing things. But if these people were actually real, could he risk letting them pass? Nezumi glanced at Shion. His face was white with tension and his forehead was damp with sweat.

     Nezumi clamped down on his reservations and climbed once again to his feet. “Hey! Over here!”

     The group of men swung toward them, their expressions instantly alert. The men approached. Fast. Their hands dropped to their guns at their sides and Nezumi’s stomach twisted in alarm.

     Nezumi took a step back at the hardness in their eyes. “Wait—”

     The first of the group closed in on him. With a practiced movement, he grabbed Nezumi’s arm and bent it behind him. Nezumi gasped, more from shock than pain. The rock he had been holding thumped to the ground. He hadn’t even tried to raise it. Nezumi cursed.

     “This one’s tripping out,” called another voice. His tone changed when he spoke again. “Looks bad.”

     “Leave him alone,” Nezumi snarled. He bucked, but the man’s grip tightened. Nezumi squeezed his eyes shut and hissed against the pain.

     “Don’t struggle, and we won’t have to hurt you,” the man growled into his ear. Then he turned to the other men. “Grab the kid and let’s go.”

     Two of the men hoisted Shion up and shouldered his weight between them. Nezumi looked from one man to the next, fear and regret smothering the fledgling hope he had of rescue. He had been so sure they weren’t Peacekeepers, but now his mind screamed at him that he had been tricked, that he had hallucinated their gray uniforms and guns. He half hoped this was all a hallucination.

     “Are you District 13?” he asked.

     The man behind him glared. Another member of the group stepped forward and shoved a bag over Nezumi’s head.


	15. Reception

     Nezumi stumbled blindly through the forest. Every time he faltered the vice grip on his arm reminded him that this was real, that the black shrouding his vision and soft whimpers from Shion somewhere behind him were not projections of his fevered mind.

     Their captors pulled Nezumi to a stop and something creaked heavily in front of him. They descended a stairway. Their footfalls clanged and the air smelled stale, gritty, and metallic. They were going underground.

     He was sure now these were not Peacekeepers. If they were, they’d already be loaded onto a hovercraft and speeding towards Capitol punishment. The only other identity he could devise for their captors was that of District 13—who else would go to such lengths to stay hidden?

_And why are they being such assholes?_ He hoped it was a misunderstanding, but the rough handling didn’t let him put too much stock in that hope. Certainly at least some of the rumors Shion had heard about District 13’s hospitality were distorted.

     They left the stairs behind and began walking on level ground. Nezumi couldn’t hear a sound other than the scrape of their boots against the concrete. Where were the other people? Even if he couldn’t see anything, he had no doubt that this underground complex was large. It would have taken a small army to construct and operate a stronghold like this.

     They drew to a halt again, but this time Nezumi was shoved forward. He stood still a moment, but when the man’s grip did not return, Nezumi cautiously pulled the bag from his head. He was in a small room. A cot was affixed to the wall and a compact toilet and sink were wedged into the corner. Dread clawed its way up Nezumi’s throat.

     He turned and met his captor’s eyes through the cell door, and realized he was alone. The other officers had peeled off at some point.

     “Where’s Shion?”

     “Your friend’s being taken care of in the medical bay.” The man took a step back from the cell. “Someone will be along to give you some medicine.”

     The corner of his mouth curled, so slightly that Nezumi was uncertain if it was a smile or a sneer. The man withdrew, paying no heed to Nezumi’s shout for answers.

\-----

     Nezumi paced with the caged intensity of a panther. It had been a day. It felt like eternity. He hadn’t seen a single person since the woman who had come to give him a pill for his headache and dress his sting with plantain leaves. She wouldn’t speak to him, and she avoided looking at him. He said some choice things about District 13’s reception thus far, and even that didn’t faze her. She left Nezumi with a bad taste in his mouth, from frustration and whatever herbal mixture was in the pill.

     Shion still was not back. Was he all right? Three stings were bad, but Shion was strong. He would be fine. He would fight it. Right?

     What if that officer didn’t take him to the medical bay at all? What if Shion was doubled over in some other cell, buffeted by the terrors of his own mind? What if it was already too late?

     Nezumi sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head in his hands. He shouldn’t have brought Shion. He shouldn’t have believed they could be anything but unlucky strangers. Every time he was naïve enough to hope it was snatched out from under him.

     Footsteps. Nezumi raised his head. The officer strode into view, looking surly as ever with his flinty eyes and close-cropped hair.

     Shion was behind him. Nezumi shot to his feet and crossed to the door.

     Shion looked pale and exhausted, but his eyes lit up when he saw Nezumi. His smile was flush with relief and Nezumi’s heart swelled. Shion was alive and well enough, and he was happy to see him.

     “Back up,” the officer drawled.

     Nezumi glared at the man, but moved back into the center of the space. The man didn’t shove or command Shion into the cell; he didn’t need to. Once the door was opened, Shion went right in and to Nezumi.

     Nezumi knew he didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t care. He held Shion and thanked whatever power there was for the heartbeat he felt against his own. Shion drew back and smiled. Then his eyes flitted to their surroundings and his expression shuttered.

     “Don’t,” Nezumi said. Nicks and scratches crisscrossed his face from their flight through the brush. Nezumi grazed the mark on Shion’s cheek with his thumb. “It wasn’t your fault.”

     Shion’s mouth opened in half-hearted argument, but he let it go and rested his forehead against Nezumi’s shoulder instead.

     “This is very touching,” the man said drily, “but could you pause your love making until I’ve briefed you?”

     Shion lifted his head. Nezumi flushed, but he channeled it into anger. “About time someone told us what the hell is going on. I thought District 13 was supposed to be a _haven_ , but that was obviously a load of shit.”

     The man canted his head. “I am Rashi, the commanding officer here, and I'm afraid what you’ve heard about District 13 is not entirely true. Especially when it comes to high profile persons such as you, Nezumi Singer.”

     Cold trickled through Nezumi’s limbs. He let Shion go and faced Rashi.

     “District 13 and the Capitol have an understanding, you see. We stay out of each other’s business and no one gets nuked. It’s worked rather nicely for the last few decades, but now….” Rashi shrugged and shook his head. “For the most part, the Capitol turns a blind eye to the runaways that manage to make it here, but sheltering one of their beloved victors puts a strain on our truce. The Capitol demands your extradition.”

_Of course._ This would be the result of all his efforts. To have escaped, only to be caught at the last second and delivered into the Capitol’s clutches in a neat bureaucratic package. Of course District 13 and the Capitol had an agreement.

     Nezumi lifted his chin. “When?”

     “As soon as our president and yours come to an agreement. Your misstep has allowed the Capitol to get its foot in the door after forty years. Fox is making the most of it.” Nezumi could taste the venom in his words. “But I can’t imagine negotiations will last much longer, and then 13 can go back to life as usual.”

_Right. Options._ Nezumi drew himself up and wracked his brain—for leverage, a counteroffer, anything he might be able to use. But Rashi’s sneer was ready and mocking. Nezumi knew there was nothing he could say to save himself.

     “Let Shion stay here.”

     Rashi raised an eyebrow.

     “The Capitol is after me. Shion isn’t part of this; he should be allowed to stay here.”

     Shion grasped his sleeve, but Nezumi brushed him off. His eyes never broke gaze with Rashi’s. “If you agree to that, I won’t make trouble. I’ll go back to the Capitol.”

     Shion grabbed Nezumi’s wrist and planted himself in front of him. He shook his head violently, mouthing _no_ repeatedly and with increasing force as Nezumi ignored him. Nezumi addressed the officer again. “Tell your president that’s my condition.”

     Rashi grimaced. “That’s a bit difficult. You see, we already offered your friend that deal. He said no—or rather, shook his head no.”

     Nezumi’s attention snapped to Shion. Shion turned his face aside and glared at the floor.

     “I wouldn’t be too mad at him. The offer was tenuous at best. Maybe Shion wasn’t involved at the start, but since your escape, the Capitol has linked him inextricably to you.” Rashi smiled, but his eyes were flat. “The people are beside themselves with your kidnapping.”

     “What?” Nezumi knew what Rashi meant the moment the incredulous question slipped out. He knew the kind of games the Capitol played.

     Rashi smiled his dead smile, and Shion turned to face the officer. Realization seeped into his face, leaching from it what little color he had regained in recovery.

     “It’s all over the news,” Rashi said, finally breaking the silence. “The Avox who kidnapped their beloved victor in a fit of rage. The media is laying it on thick. Avoxes are unstable, dangerous, jealous.” Nezumi bristled and Rashi’s counterfeit smile tightened at the edges. “You two really screwed things up for Avoxes everywhere.”

     Shion’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. Nezumi felt the immediate instinct to comfort him, but the look that twisted Shion’s face stopped the impulse in its tracks.

     Pure loathing. Shion glared at Rashi like he would tear him to pieces if not for the bars between them. Even though Nezumi felt the same, he felt uncomfortable at seeing such an ugly emotion on Shion’s face.

     He touched Shion’s elbow. Shion relaxed his jaw and his snarl shrunk to an aggressive scowl.

     “Their storytelling is quite masterful, and they have some very convincing footage from your bedchamber…” Rashi seemed genuinely curious on this point, but he shrugged a shoulder when he realized he would get nothing from them.

     Rashi studied Shion. “The mugshots they’re circulating of you are terrible. At first I thought they were edits, but I can see it now. There’s a lot of pent up rage in you.” Shion tensed, but was aware enough not to get riled up again. Rashi, though, apparently couldn’t help himself and added, “It must drive you crazy that you can’t give me a proper tongue-lashing right now.”

     “That’s enough,” Nezumi growled. He laid an arm across Shion’s chest and stepped forward, shielding him from Rashi. “It’s obvious that you can’t help us and don’t want to. You made your report, you can fuck off now.”

     Rashi held up his hands, placating. He flashed his grim smile at them once more before he strode off.

\-----

     Nezumi muttered under his breath for the third time in the hour. He never thought he could hate anything more than the Capitol, but District 13 was slowly rising up the rankings.

     Shion sat on the cot behind him, staring at the floor. After the officer had left, he retreated there and warded off any attempts Nezumi made at talking to him. Nezumi let him alone.

     He needed time to think.

     They’d never make it to the Capitol. There was no way Fox would suffer traitors to live, even if one was one of his precious victors—especially if one was a victor. Once District 13 negotiated his extradition, Nezumi would be escorted out of the compound and shot in the head before he made it three steps from the door. He wouldn’t be surprised if it were Rashi who carried out the deed. The man would do anything to keep District 13 buried.

     Fox would work the masses into a froth over the fate of their victor and then feed them the tragic news of Nezumi’s death. They’d probably say Shion killed him in a hostage situation gone wrong. Then they’d take Shion to the Capitol and execute him publicly, milking the Capitol’s grief and hatred to the last drop, and Fox’s hold over Panem would be that much stronger.

     Nezumi could see every step from here to the grave. He’d be damned before he walked right into it.

_I survived the Hunger Games. I can survive this. We can survive this._

     His and Shion’s eyes met for a moment, but Shion’s slid away, towards the hall. Footsteps again, but these were not made by Rashi’s heavy military boots. Nezumi turned.

     A young man appeared, holding a tray. He looked between Shion and Nezumi and tried to smile. “Hello. I’m Yamase.” Nezumi glared daggers at him. The man’s smile petrified.

     He fixed his gaze on Shion instead, deciding, rightly, that he was the less terrifying of the political hostages. He cleared his throat. “I brought dinner.”

     Nezumi curled his lip at the tray of gray mush and bread Yamase pushed through the bottom of the bars.

     “I’m sorry it’s not much, but we all get the same rations here.”

     Even though there was a cage of metal separating him from them, Yamase took a step back when Nezumi approached to take the tray.

     “And are we supposed to eat with our hands?” Nezumi sloshed the food around, accentuating its soupy consistency and the lack of utensils.

     “I’m sorry, but the officers won’t allow anything that could be used as a weapon.” He almost looked sorry. “But you don’t need a spoon. Scoop it with the bread. And if you need any water, I’ve got some.” Yamase unpacked a glass bottle from the bag at his side and filled two paper cups. He set those on the floor just outside the bars.

     Nezumi huffed and offered the tray to Shion. He stared, but didn’t take it. Nezumi put the tray down on the edge of the bed. He half expected the young man to be gone when he turned around, but he was still there, his arms folded uncertainly across his chest.

     “Can you get Shion’s notebook at least? Kid’s useless without it.”

     Yamase hesitated. “I can probably get you the book… But the pen…”

     “Is too weaponlike,” Nezumi finished drily.

     And now Yamase did look sorry. “It isn’t always like this, you know,” he said, uncrossing his arms and looking earnest in a way that reminded Nezumi of Shion, except that it looked pathetic on this man. “District 13 helps the people who come here—my mother was a runaway from 12. It’s just you two…” Yamase drooped. “I know it isn’t fair, but there’s nothing we can do.”

     “What a load of crap.”

     Yamase lifted his gaze. Weariness hung about his shoulders, as though he realized his mistake and was resigned to take the punishment.

     Nezumi ground his teeth. He was sick of these hypocrites. Everyone wanted to be standing on the righteous side, and when they couldn’t fool themselves, they immediately retreated behind platitudes and shrugs.

     “You’re a coward. Everyone in District 13 is. You’ve been hiding down here for forty years, and not once did you try to help the people in the other districts. Sure, District 13 might take pity on the one or two lucky ones who escape, but what about the other thousand? People are starving up there— _dying_ —every day, and you do nothing. Hundreds of children have been murdered, and you turned your faces aside because you couldn’t bear the inconvenience to your Capitol sanctioned asylum. District 13 is no different from the Capitol, except that the food in the Capitol is at least good.”

     Yamase shrunk back and Nezumi drew forward. It had been a long while since he’d laid into someone, and he relished the wash of hatred rising in his chest.

     He wrapped his hands around the bars and leaned in until he could feel the cold draft of the metal on his cheeks. “Selfish bastards like you really piss me off. You think as long as you keep your heads down you’ll be safe. You’ve sold your soul, and for what? You’re still the Capitol’s dog; it’s just that you’ve got a longer leash.

     “At least the people in the other Districts still have their pride. And one of these days, the Capitol will go too far and we’ll have had enough. It may be tomorrow, it may take decades, but I promise you the day will come. And when it does, you’re going to wish District 13 made a few more friends.”

     Yamase’s hands curled at his sides. His face was pale and drawn and Nezumi saw the man knew that at least some of what he’d said was true. But instead of acknowledging it, he ran. True to form. Nezumi cursed his weakness viciously even after he was long gone.

     Shion sniffled. Nezumi stopped swearing to the empty air and turned. Shion sat hunched over on the cot, head in his hands.

     Nezumi sighed and crossed the cell to sit beside him. “This isn’t your fault, no one’s going back to the Capitol, and no one’s going to die,” he intoned. “I don’t know what you’re crying about, but that ought to cover all the bases.”

     Shion sniffed again and swiped at his face.

     “We’re getting out of here.”

     Shion angled toward him, his eyes shining with silent questions. Nezumi glared at the paper cups outside the bars.

     “I have a plan.”


	16. Reversal

     Nezumi barely slept during the night. Sheer exhaustion granted him two solid hours after eons tossing and turning. Now he was wide awake, staring at the dimmed recessed lights in the ceiling and imaging dawn creeping over the horizon feet above his head.

     Today was the day. The Capitol and District 13 must have come to an agreement by now. He had no idea when he and Shion would be pulled out of this cell and marched to the surface, but they only had until then to get what they needed to escape.

     Shion shifted beside him, knocking his knee. Nezumi turned his head. Shion gazed back. His eyes shone deep dark and clear. Worry edged the soft planes of his face, but the trust Nezumi saw reflected in Shion’s gaze made his chest crumple. And expand. Shion believed in him. It made him feel warm and strong, but part of him wanted to curl up and shrink from the hope they held between them.

     This wasn’t the Games. If he failed, it wasn’t just his life. But when Nezumi searched his face, he could see that Shion knew the cost and he was determined anyway. Nezumi didn’t want that responsibility or that guilt. He turned from Shion and threw an arm over his eyes. One last moment of shutting out the world before he had to face it head on.

     The overhead lights blared to life. Nezumi and Shion shot up. Yamase walked into view with a tray and Nezumi’s attention sharpened.

_One chance._

     Yamase fixed them with a rickety smile. “Breakfast,” he said, stooping to place the tray on the ground. Nezumi stood and the man flinched back, ready to bolt.

     Nezumi’s stomach tightened. He regretted his harshness yesterday; now he had to backtrack before he could gain ground. _I can do it. Just watch me,_ he swore grimly.

     “Wait.” Nezumi put a hand out in a gesture of goodwill, and Yamase was so accommodating he paused. Nezumi rewarded him with his most pleasant smile. He was rusty, but it seemed to work well enough, even under all the wear and tear of the past few days.

     “I’m sorry if I came on a bit strong yesterday.”

     Yamase’s brow creased. His eyes flicked to Shion, who remained still, sitting up in bed.

     “Look,” Nezumi said, coaxing Yamase’s attention back to himself, “I don’t want to go back to the Capitol. I know you can’t do anything about that.” The retort Yamase was forming melted on his lips. “I’m just saying I was angry, and I lashed out. I can’t help it. I’m a district kid, and a victor. I guess I’m used to fighting.” Nezumi dropped his shoulders and sighed. “I know you were just trying to help.”

     Nezumi could see his words working their way through Yamase’s mind. Wariness still clung to the lines of his body, but his face began to show signs of uncertainty.

     “We started on the wrong foot, I think, and I know we don’t have much longer in 13, but I’d like for us to start with a clean slate. What do you say?”

     “Well…” Yamase tucked his hands under his arms, his eyes ever darting between Nezumi and Shion, as though he might be able to spot the deceit. Nezumi held his hopeful expression, but his heart thumped hard in his chest. Yamase was malleable—it was written all over him. If he had another day, he had no doubt that he could bring him fully under his influence. But they might have only minutes.

     “Well…” Yamase said again and shifted from foot to foot. He cleared his throat. “Here.” He reached into his bag and pulled Shion’s notebook out. Shion perked and Nezumi held his breath, hoping the pen would follow, but Yamase wasn’t a fool.

     Yamase flashed Shion a small smile and Shion returned it full force. Nezumi joined in on the smile fest, weaving gratitude and humility into the edges of his expression.

     He moved forward to take the notebook. The other man tensed when Nezumi was close, but he looked nowhere near running, which was a vast improvement from a moment ago. Nezumi took a risk. When Yamase slipped the book through the bars, Nezumi took hold of it, and pressed a hand over Yamase’s.

     “Thank you, Yamase. This means a lot to us.” Yamase startled, but Nezumi held him where he wanted, with his hand and a honeyed tone. “I don’t want to be a bother, but could you do me one more small favor? Shion’s been coughing all morning. And…” Nezumi dropped his gaze. “He was crying a lot last night. He tried to hide it, but…” He pressed Yamase’s hand a little firmer, and peered sideways through his lashes. “Shion’s parched. Do you think you can get him some water? Please?”

     Yamase swallowed, but Nezumi knew it was no longer from fear. _That’s right_. _I’m pretty, aren’t I?_ Nezumi coaxed. _Nothing to be wary of._

     This was the tricky part, though. He could only get so far with seduction. He needed Shion’s help to convince Yamase to give them the water bottle.

     Shion blinked at him, and Nezumi felt a pang of fear that he had frozen up. Shion cleared his throat and waved a hand to say he was fine. Then his face pinched and he turned aside and gave a surprisingly convincing cough, then another, and another. Nezumi’s eyebrows raised a fraction, but he cloaked it with a look of worry. Shion rubbed his throat and looked ashamed.

     Yamase murmured in concern and fished through his bag. The glass bottle twinkled when he pulled it free. Nezumi watched it hungrily, but to his chagrin, Yamase pulled out a paper cup as well. He handed the filled cup to Nezumi and Nezumi thanked him demurely.

     He brought the cup to Shion, who gave a few more breathy coughs into his arm before he took it. Nezumi placed the notebook at the foot of the bed and patted Shion’s back. “We need that bottle,” he whispered in Shion’s ear. Shion’s eyes flicked to Nezumi’s and back to the cup.

     Shion threw the drink back and breathed in halfway through the swallow. He retched violently, spilling water down the front of his shirt and crushing the cup into his hand. There was no doubt that the coughing Shion performed earlier was an act, because this was the real thing. Shion’s eyes filled with tears and his coughs sounded fluttery and raw. Nezumi felt a flicker of pride in his chest mixed in with the concern.

     He turned. “He needs more water, quickly!” Yamase stuttered, and Nezumi repeated himself with sharper desperation, rushing to the cell door. “Quickly! He’s choking! The water.”

     Nezumi knew that Yamase’s brain would be telling him a person couldn’t actually choke from drinking water, but logic would be at odds with the blare of emotion, with the grating sound of Shion’s coughs and Nezumi’s shrill cries for help, telling him now, _now,_ you have to do something _now_!

     Yamase half raised the bottle towards the cell door, and Nezumi didn’t wait for logic to overcome the visceral impulse. He grabbed the bottle from Yamase and his heart soared. He savored the smooth, cool curve of it in his hand, held it tight, feeling the hard resistance of the glass. Nezumi took a hurried step toward Shion. Stumbled.

     The bottle shattered against the floor, glass and water shrapnel radiating out from the point of impact.

     Nezumi cursed. He reached to pick up a piece of glass and sliced his finger wide open. He cursed louder.

     “I’m sorry. I didn’t…” Nezumi met Yamase’s gaze, and Nezumi saw himself through his eyes: bleeding, hair loose and disheveled over his shoulders, and looking so pitiful it was heartbreaking. And maybe a little breathtaking.

     Nezumi pouted at his bleeding finger and slipped it into his mouth to nurse the wound.

     Yamase jumped. “I’ll go get some bandages!” he squeaked. “And—and someone to clean that up. Wait here.” He bolted from the room.

     Nezumi almost laughed. He pulled his finger out of his mouth and pursed his lips. “Small price to pay, I suppose,” he said, wagging it at Shion.

     Shion narrowed his eyes at him. They were still glassy from the tears.

     “What?”

     Shion raised his eyebrows.

     “Hey, come on, I can’t help it; my looks are the only weapon I have right now. It was just a bit of teasing. You know I only have eyes for you.” He batted his lashes.

     Shion puffed out his cheeks and turned aside, but Nezumi caught his blush. He chuckled, but didn’t waste another moment. He found the biggest, least likely to be missed piece of glass and tucked it into his pocket.

     Nezumi raised his head as he heard the footsteps slap the floor. Several sets. He and Shion scrambled up and assumed innocent expressions.

     Yamase came in running, bless his soul.

\-----

     Rashi arrived an hour later. To Nezumi’s surprise, the officer didn’t gloat. He looked haggard and irritable, much the same as Nezumi and Shion. Two others came with him, a man and a woman, and at the sight of their prim white uniforms and batons, Nezumi felt a conditioned kick in his stomach.

     The male Peacekeeper scowled at Nezumi, and then Shion. “Unlock the door,” he barked at Rashi. A muscle in Rashi’s jaw slid, but he obeyed. “Come,” the Peacekeeper growled through the open door.

     He looked to be in his fifties, his face tan and sun-creased, but his dead glare threatened against any ideas about his age being a weakness.

     Nezumi slunk forward. Shion followed, so close behind Nezumi half expected to feel him clutch the hem of his shirt or take his hand. But Shion was braver than that and kept his hands to himself.

     Rashi grasped Nezumi’s forearm as soon as he stepped over the threshold, and for one burning moment their gazes met and the hatred warped the air between them. Then the female Peacekeeper grabbed Rashi’s arm.

     “We’ll take it from here, officer.” Her voice was casual, but a layer of ice lay beneath it.

     Rashi’s face twisted, but he matched her tone tit for tat. “These boys are still prisoners of District 13. I’m in charge of their transfer until they leave the building. After that, they’re all yours.”

     The woman’s hand stayed on Rashi’s wrist for a charged second. She stepped back, tipped her head, and smiled.

     Rashi led Nezumi through the passage, and this time Nezumi could distinguish some signs of life within. A door in the corridor swung open, and he heard people laughing and the clink of cutlery. He caught a glimpse of more District 13 officers as they climbed a staircase, but Rashi steered their group away.

     Nezumi glanced back to check on Shion. The Peacekeepers flanked him, following a step behind, but they hadn’t laid hands on him and seemed entirely disinterested.

_Guess they’re used to ignoring Avoxes._

     But Nezumi wasn’t bitter about that for once. He was glad Shion flew under the radar. The Peacekeepers paid every mind to Nezumi, though. He was the obvious risk: The victor, a tried and proven killer.

     Nezumi turned back around.

     They had begun to scale a set of stairs. They were close. Nezumi recognized the tang of metal and dirt. Rashi paused before the door to the outside. Nezumi could smell the dying heat of the late summer air. Goosebumps pricked at his arms.

     “You’re someone else’s problem now,” Rashi said to him, low. His flinty eyes sparked. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

     Rashi pushed the door open and shoved Nezumi into the afternoon sun. Shion stumbled out after him, the Peacekeepers riding his heels. The door to 13 clanged shut and Nezumi swiveled around, wary of a bullet in the back.

     The male Peacekeeper had drawn his gun, but he didn’t raise it. The corner of the man’s mouth curled mirthlessly when Nezumi’s gaze lifted from the gun to meet his eyes.

     The female Peacekeeper stepped forward and wove a length of rope around Nezumi’s wrists and then Shion’s. She jerked her chin forward. “Hovercraft is that way. Get walking.”

     Nezumi moved as slowly as possible without being obvious, Shion by his side. The male Peacekeeper stayed ahead, and the woman brought up the rear. The man still held his gun, but Nezumi eyed the baton at his hip.

     He could see the hovercraft in the distance through the thick of trees, and at least one other Peacekeeper guarded the ramp.

     Nezumi pitched forward in a feigned stumble, his hands closing over the baton handle. He yanked as he tucked his body and rolled forward, popping up front side of the male Peacekeeper. The man looked murderous and Nezumi knew he would only get one shot.

     He swung his arms across his body and twisted into the upward arc, cracking the man across the face. Something crunched, the sound turned more hideous by the spray of blood that spattered the nearby bushes.

     The man pitched sideways. A wet wheeze gurgled from his throat. The crack of Fissure’s club and Flint’s answering death rattle reverberated through Nezumi’s skull. He grit his teeth against the sick swell of memory. He dropped the baton and dove for the gun. If he could get the gun, the shard of glass in his pocket would be nothing.

     The man still held the weapon in his hand, and when Nezumi’s fingers curled around it, the man whipped his head up. His right eye was a red pulp, and his jaw hung askew, the skin around it already purpling. Nezumi hissed through his teeth. He abandoned the gun and stomped on the man’s hand.

     Nezumi dampened his thoughts against the snap of bones beneath his boot and searched for the female Peacekeeper. He had been too preoccupied with the man and left himself open to her attacks. He had left Shion open.

     The woman had Shion by the scruff of his neck, her gun pointed at Nezumi’s chest. He didn’t know why she hadn’t shot him already. She must have had a clear line for seconds now. Shion’s face was pale and grim. He held his arms stiffly to the side away from the woman, one hand tucked and fisted in his pocket.

     The woman paid no mind to her crippled partner. She sneered at Nezumi. Something about her expression felt righteous, as though she expected this outcome and was smug it had come to pass. Maybe she despised her partner and was happy to see him crushed to a pulp. It would explain why she hadn’t fired her gun.

     Nezumi held up his hands in surrender to give him time to reevaluate. He shrugged a shoulder. “You had to expect an attempt at least.”

     “Yes,” the woman said, and yanked Shion a step back. Shion’s throat contracted, his shoulders bunching up.

     Nezumi’s blood jolted. He raised his hands a little higher as the woman adjusted her grip on the gun. The adrenaline began to fade and it dawned on him just how outmatched they were. He had narrowed the odds by taking one Peacekeeper down, but a glass shard didn’t mean shit when the Peacekeepers had guns. He was accustomed to the district breed of Peacekeepers, who typically only brandished batons. What little hope their attempt at arming themselves garnered slipped down his spine in a cold sweat.

     “President Fox wants to have a talk before we put a bullet in you,” the woman growled. “But pull something like that,” she tipped her gun toward her half-conscious partner, “on me, and I swear I’ll shoot you right in that pretty—”

     Shion whipped himself around and slashed at the woman’s outstretched arm. The woman yelped. The gun fell from her grip and she pulled her wrist to her chest. She gaped as she watched blood seep through her fingers, as though she couldn’t comprehend Avoxes were capable of independent thought, let alone the look of pure disgust Shion wore.

     Shion held a piece of jagged glass in his hand. Nezumi stared at the blood staining the edge.

_When? How?_ Shion hadn’t taken a piece of glass. He never saw him. But apparently Shion had.

     Shion held the glass out in an unsteady hand and took a step back from the woman. The woman broke from her trance. She dove for her gun. Shion tackled her.

     Shion and the woman landed in a heap and rolled in a vicious tangle of limbs and grunts. Another yelp of pain sounded between them and both bodies froze, petrified.

     “Shion!”

     Nezumi rushed forward and dragged Shion off the woman, searching for wounds on his person. The first thing he saw was red. Shion’s hands were coated with blood; his cheek was smeared with it. Nezumi couldn’t breathe. But Shion wasn’t injured. The blood wasn’t his. That realization didn’t make breathing any easier.

     The female Peacekeeper’s right arm was red to her elbow from the slice in her wrist, and the blood dribbled and pooled where her other hand gripped her neck.

     There was so much blood—how could one cut bleed so much? But the woman coughed and a fresh gush pulsed beneath her palm. The sliver of glass winked from between her fingers, razor-sharp and wet with promise.

     Nezumi tasted bile in his mouth. The whites of the woman’s eyes shone in bright relief to the red-black bubble of blood at her lips. Images of Sylva’s mutilated body and Syrah’s yawning throat exploded behind his eyes. The air was thick with metal and sweat and primal fear. He could feel it pressed up against his skin, mingling with the dirt and grime of days of running and hiding.

     He felt Shion’s shoulders heave with labored breaths beneath his hands. Nezumi held onto the feeling, trying to banish the phantasm of the Games from his brain. Now was not the time to become mired in memory. Voices murmured in the distance. The hovercraft hummed.

_The hovercraft._

     Nezumi sucked in a breath. “Run. Come on, Shion! The other Peacekeepers will come looking any second. _Let’s go._ ”

     Nezumi snatched at Shion’s hand. Their palms slid slickly against each other. Nezumi pushed back the lurch of nausea in his throat and gripped Shion’s hand tighter.

     They ran.


	17. Restraint

     They had run so many times since they’d decided to escape it felt as tried and certain as breathing. They barely felt the burn of their legs beneath them, or the awkward twist of their arms in the restraints, or the branches snatching at their clothes. The only reality was the flare of warmth captured between their palms.

     Nezumi thought he heard Peacekeepers behind them, but over the thunder of their flight it was difficult to tell if it was just paranoia dogging him. But it wasn’t a figment of his imagination when he felt the vibration of the hovercraft take off.

     They stuck to the dense foliage from then on. When they couldn’t maintain their sprint, they alternated between a jog and a run. Only when their legs felt like stone and their clothes stuck to them like a second skin did they stop.

     Nezumi led them into in a close woven copse to catch their breath for a moment. The sun had meandered to the west side of the sky. They had run a good while, but Nezumi was not naive enough to think they could rest for long. The Capitol would be more determined now than ever.

     But so was he.They would escape this time. Truly escape. Nezumi would not be caught; the shard brushing against the top of his leg promised that.

     Shion’s face was sweat-sheened and pale. He planted a hand against the nearest tree, only to pull it back to stare at the bits of bark that stuck to his sticky palm.

     Nezumi had to remember then. That Shion had attacked a person, had stabbed them in the neck with a piece of glass. He still wore the woman’s blood. Nezumi breathed slowly through his nose.

     “Are you okay?” he asked Shion.

     Shion’s eyes snapped up and Nezumi swallowed. He had seen that look before, on starved district kids’ faces, on tributes’, on victors’. Nezumi never wanted to see Shion wear it.

     Shion dropped his eyes just as suddenly. He nodded at the ground. Nezumi wanted to reach out to him or say something, but he didn’t know what he should say. He could never figure out the right thing to tell to himself after his Games.

     Shion rubbed his hands on his pants and Nezumi forced himself not to notice the brown smears they left behind. “We should cut these ropes,” he said, measuring his voice flat. He fished the piece of glass out of his pocket and twisted his hands around to saw at the coil of rope around his wrists.

     Shion kept still as the glass bit into the ropes around his own wrists. The restraints fell away, and Nezumi stepped back. Wind stirred the leaves around them and streak of stray sunlight slipped through the canopy and glinted off the glass. Shion’s eyes lifted to the light and went wide.

     Shion bolted. Nezumi called out his name, but he didn’t go far. Shion doubled over against a tree and threw up. Nezumi waited until it ran its course before approaching. He crouched by Shion’s side and laid a hand on his shoulder.

     “She’ll be fine, Shion. The Capitol’s fancy surgeons will get her stitched up and she’ll be back to oppressing the masses in no time. You didn’t kill her. Okay? It’s okay.”

     He rubbed small circles into Shion’s shoulder blade and shushed the doubts inside. The Peacekeeper may not be dead. Wounds to the neck always looked bad, but people survived worse. Tributes survived worse. They would never know whether the woman died seconds after they ran or would be rescued and live a long life on a Capitol pension. But it was better to believe the latter.

     “You saved us. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

     Shion’s body shook. He stared down at his hands like he couldn’t recognize them. Shion didn’t need to speak for Nezumi to know the horror in his expression.

     But the horror slashed across Shion’s face wasn’t for himself. It was for Nezumi.

     He might have killed someone, but Shion’s only thoughts were, _How could we do this to you? How could we force you to kill for our amusement, when now I know it feels like_ this _?_

     Nezumi’s chest tightened.

     “It’s not your fault.” He drew Shion gently to his feet. “You’re not to blame for what happens to the districts; you’re just as much of a victim as any tribute or victor. It’s the Capitol that’s to blame. It’s monsters like Fox and his Peacekeepers,” Nezumi spat. What he wouldn’t give to give the Capitol a taste of their own medicine.

     But when he turned back to Shion the hatred flagged in his chest. “Don’t cry, okay?” he murmured. He brushed the tears from Shion’s cheeks. “I’m fine. And you’re going to be too. I know how it feels now, and I’ll be honest, that feeling never goes away, but it gets better. It…” Nezumi cleared his throat. “It got better for me. When I met you.”

     Shion stopped mid-sniffle. Nezumi’s insides squirmed, but he was done shying away from this. What was he running from anyway? They were two kids alone in the woods with nothing but the truth between them.

     “You saved me in the Games. And you’ve supported me ever since. Even when it cost you your freedom and your family. No one’s ever done that for me, and I’ve never stopped being grateful for it. Even when I pushed you away, you never stopped reaching out to me. You protected me. And I’d do the same for you. We protect each other.

     “So lean on me. And, all right, go ahead and cry if you want, but don’t do it alone. No matter what you’re feeling, or what you do, I’m going to support you. We’re in this together.”

     The speech sounded better when he had written it by the fire all those nights ago, but Shion seemed to feel the weight of it just the same. His tears dried up, and he stopped shaking. He still looked pale, but his fingers tightened around Nezumi’s hand and he smiled.

     Nezumi would kill to protect that smile.

\----- 

     The moon was barely a crescent in the sky. There was too little light filtering through the trees to make running in the dark safe anymore. They had to trust that the low visibility would slow the Peacekeepers as well and cloak them until morning.

     They spent a half hour trying to find a cave or something similarly concealed, but nothing big enough for two could be found. Exhaustion and thirst won out over caution in the end and they made camp along a stream. Nezumi sighed and slipped down onto the bank. Shion crouched down beside him and did his best to scrub the blood off his hands and cheek.

     Nezumi stared at the light bluish froth brushing up against the bank. He was starting to feel like they would spend the remainder of their lives running, and making camp, and narrowly escaping, and running again. All his life he had been restless, but now he wanted nothing more than to sit down and stay put for longer than a few hours.

     The air shivered with the sounds of water over rocks. Nezumi closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to breathe.Shion tugged his sleeve and Nezumi turned to him. Shion gestured to his face.

     “All clean.”

     Shion shoulders relaxed as an invisible weight lifted from them. He dropped down to sit hip to hip with Nezumi. Crickets chirruped from somewhere to their right, and the frogs across the stream answered throatily. The scene was so docile it was difficult to imagine that they had been on their way to an execution that morning, that they were still fugitives who’d have to pick up and run come sunrise.

     “I wish we had food,” Nezumi grumbled. The hunger pangs had eaten each other hours ago and now there was only numb emptiness sitting where his stomach was.

     Shion nodded sadly beside him and mimed writing. The notepad was tucked safely into Shion’s pocket, but it was just tinder without a pen.

     “Eh. You don’t need it. You’re pretty easy to read.” Nezumi pushed the pebbles on the bank around with his foot. He wanted to dip his sore feet into the cool, clear water, but his survival instincts warned him against getting caught without shoes on. When the sole of his boot skated over the surface of the water a tendril of red wisped away in the gentle current.

     Nezumi pulled his foot up. “Gimme a sheet of paper.”

     Shion blinked at him, but pulled out his notepad and ripped a page out. Nezumi deftly folded the sheet into a miniature boat and placed it on the water. The boat drifted along the stream’s surface until it snagged against a rock. Nezumi splashed until it dislodged and went on its merry way. Shion watched the scene from start to finish with pleased puzzlement.

     “Whimsy,” Nezumi said when Shion turned to him for an explanation.

     Shion tilted his head. His eyes followed the paper boat until it disappeared into the dark. He turned back to Nezumi, tapped his own throat, and pointed up.

     “I’m not screaming into the sky again.”

     Shion laughed, but shook his head. He repeated the gestures, but added more flourish to the hand movement at the end.

     “Oh, you want me to sing.” Shion smiled and hummed the first bar of “Survival or the Grave.” Nezumi’s brow creased. “That’s a morbid selection.”

     Shion drew his mouth into a line and canted his head to say, _Maybe, but fitting._ Nezumi didn’t fight him on that point and cleared his throat instead. He sang with his voice at a measured volume to keep the sound from the ears of any persons or mockingjays in the area.

_Little mouse in the hedgerow,_

_Hawks circling overhead,_

_Run quick to your home now,_

_Or else you shall be dead._

_The foxes are hunting,_

_The cats are in the brush,_

_Run quick to your home now,_

_Step quietly, but rush._

_The sun and mounts are meeting,_

_Little mouse, you must be brave._

_The time to run is fleeting,_

_It’s survival or the grave._

     Nezumi finished quietly. Ever since he sang the rhyme in his interview the contrast between the jaunty tune and the storyline bothered him. As though the narrator enjoyed the mouse’s predicament. Then again, nursery rhymes all tended toward the macabre.

     Shion apparently didn’t feel the same about the song. His eyes had gone soft and faraway as he listened and watched Nezumi. The waves of affection radiating off him were strong enough to make Nezumi’s cheeks prickle.

     Nezumi stayed very still as Shion leaned in and kissed him. The kiss barely lasted past the second it took for his heart to speed up, but he felt lightheaded.

     “Was that payment for the song?”

     The corner of Shion’s mouth curled up. He shrugged a shoulder, and Nezumi paid close attention to how Shion’s arm brushed up against his. Nezumi leaned back on his hands.

     “I think it was worth more than that.”

     Shion’s eyebrows raised to say, _Is that so?_ When he leaned in again Nezumi made sure the kiss lasted well past a second.

\----- 

     Nezumi didn’t know where they were anymore. They were way farther north than he had ever been, farther than the Capitol would ever allow. He wouldn’t be surprised if they had crossed out of Panem’s borders and entered whatever territory lay north. School lessons never included any information about the world outside of Panem; the Capitol would have everyone believe it was the only civilization still standing. But that was as unlikely as humans were resilient.

     Nezumi chewed slowly on a handful of berries. After a short rest by the river they took a hearty drink to carry them through another day of hiking and set off. As they weaved through the early morning shadows, Nezumi and Shion scavenged for food. They were able to gather some mulberries and nuts to snack on. Shion had crammed as many as he could into his pockets and didn’t seem to care that the inky juices leaked through the fabric.

     He glanced at Shion. The kid was a mess of stains and dirt. Twigs poked out of his white hair and thin lines of healing scratches crisscrossed his face and arms. Nezumi knew he probably looked similar—worse maybe, since his hair was long. He could feel how much of a snarl the locks were, even pulled back. He didn’t even want to imagine how much they smelled…

     Nezumi shook his head. “We’re quite the pair,” he muttered to himself. Shion looked at him and Nezumi waved his hand that it was nothing.

     Shion went back to swatting at bushes with a stick he’d picked up, occasionally plucking a pulped berry out and popping it into his mouth.

     He was handling yesterday’s events better than Nezumi thought he would. Or at least he was pretending to. Nezumi knew Shion had barely slept the night before. He had tried to talk to Shion about it, but Shion had only buried his face deeper into Nezumi’s shoulder and refused to engage.

     It had pissed him off a little, because it made him feel useless. It reminded him of his shortcomings in dealing with people and their hurts. Nezumi picked at the bandage around the cut on his finger. He would work on it. _They_ would work on it. Together.

     Shion drew to a sudden stop and Nezumi almost stumbled into him. His blood sang as he searched for threats, but Shion tugged at his elbow and pointed.

     They had reached the edge of the forest. The ground sloped down into a valley lush with green grasses. The brush was high on the edge of the descent and on the slope down, but then the grasses and flowers flattened out.

     As if the sight of a neatly manicured lawn wasn’t enough to send Nezumi’s head spinning, there was a house on the edge of the valley, shadowed pleasantly by the trees behind it.

     Nezumi blinked and blinked again, but the house in the distance stayed solidly in the valley. A flag wavered in the breeze on the edge of the front porch, patterned in a way he couldn’t recognize. A small pile of firewood lay to the left of the front door, and a garden bursting with pink geraniums hugged the side of the house. It looked like a cottage from a fairytale.

     Shion goggled at it. He looked at Nezumi, eyes wide and hopeful and asking, _Is this real?_ Nezumi shook his head in disbelief. He wanted it to be real. He wanted so badly for it to be safe and welcoming, for it to mark the end of their running and hiding.

     A brown smudge appeared on the horizon, moving steadily in the direction of the house. Nezumi and Shion ducked behind a thick line of shrubbery. This, at least, was familiar to them.

     The smudge took on the shape of a man as it neared. He was short and rumpled, with dusty blond hair. A rifle hung loosely from his shoulder and a few fowl and rabbits dangled from his hands. Nezumi narrowed his eyes at the man’s inconspicuous clothes and unhurried demeanor. There was not an ounce of menace about him, but Nezumi kept searching, waiting for the threat to reveal itself.

     The man stepped up onto the porch and the front door of the house flew open with a scream. The hairs on the back of Nezumi’s neck stood on end, but Shion leaned forward and gasped softly. A little boy burst out of the house and hopped up and down in front of the man, yelling something with childish glee. The man dropped the game in his hands and scooped the boy up into his arms.

     Nezumi’s brow furrowed. The scene was strange to his eyes. He had only ever watched something like this on the Capitol propaganda videos: children raised high and twirled about by smiling parents while the narrator waxed romantic. _He_ had certainly never experienced what he saw now, and he had no memory of any similar joy in District 7. But Shion’s eyes were blurred with tears as he watched the man place the boy down and lay a hand on his cheek, and Nezumi swallowed as he remembered Karan doing the same.

     A woman stepped out of the open door. She said something and the man laughed. The woman pecked the man on the cheek, lifted the rabbits and fowls off the ground, and ushered the man and child into the house.

     Nezumi and Shion watched the closed door for a moment longer. Shion stood first. He wiped his face with the corners of his dirtied shirtsleeves and raised his eyebrows at Nezumi in question. But it wasn’t really a question. It was a hope.

     Nezumi didn’t know what to think. He wanted it to be real—it looked real—but it was so outside the realm of his experience he was afraid to believe it. But the shine in Shion’s eyes said he believed it, and he trusted Shion.

     Nezumi stood. “You sure?” he asked.

     Shion gazed at the house. Blurs of movement danced behind the window. Shion nodded.

     “Good,” Nezumi said, nodding back.“Should we wait…?”

     Shion shook his head. _Now_ , he mouthed.

     Shion cracked a smile at the same time Nezumi smirked.“I think we’ve been here before,” Nezumi chuckled.

     That night on the roof of the Training Center was eons away from where they stood now, but the sense of growing excitement was the same.

     Nezumi and Shion clasped hands and picked their way down the hill.


End file.
